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THE 


CHRISTIAN   KEEPSAKE 


MISSIONARY    ANNUAL. 


EDITED    BY    REV.    JOHN    A.    CLARK. 


1838. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

WILLIAM     MARSHALL     AND     CO. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1837,  by  W. 
Marshall  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


BAIN  AND  ORR,  PRINTERS — HUDSON'S  ALLEY. 


LIST  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 

EUROPE. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY,  ESQ.       REV.  JOHN  A.  JAMES. 

REV.  ROBERT  PHILIP.       T.  RAFFLES,  D.D. 

MRS.  COPLEY.       MRS.  OPIE.       MRS.  ANNE  GRANT. 

AMERICA. 

RT.  REV.  G.  W.  DOANE,  D.D.        RT.  REV.  B.  B.  SMITH,  p.D. 

HEMAN  HUMPHREY,  D.D.        WM.  B.  SPRAGUE,  D.D. 

NEHEMIAH  ADAMS,  D.D.       REV.  C.  S.  HENRY. 

REV.  E.  POND.       ALONZO  POTTER,  D.D. 

REV.  J.  S.  STONE.       REV.  M.  A.  d'w.  HOWE. 

REV.  LEONARD  WITHINGTON.         REV.  JOHN  M'VICAR,  D.D. 

REV.  GEORGE  POTTS.       REV.  WM.  ADAMS. 

WM.  G.  GODDARD,  ESQ.       STEPHEN  H.  TYNG,  D.D. 

REV.  A.  BARNES.       REV.  H.  A.  BOARDMAN.       REV.  J.  TODD. 

REV.  HERMAN  HOOKER.       REV.  C.  H.  ALDEN. 

JOHN  P.  K.  HENSHAW,  D.D.       REV.  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER. 

REV.  WM.  S.  PLUMER.       REV.  J.  H.  CLINCH. 

CHAUNCEY  COLTON,  D.D.       REV.  JOHN  W.  BROWNE. 

REV.  W.  COLTON.       MR.  S.  C.  BRACE. 

HON.  THEODORE  FRELINGHUYSEN.        J.  K.  MITCHELL,  M.D. 

N.  C.  BROOKS,  ESQ,       WILLIS  G.  CLARK,  ESQ. 

WM.  B.  TAPPAN,  ESQ.       GRENVILLE  MELLEN,  ESQ. 

PROFESSOR  C.  D.  CLEAVELAND. 

MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.  MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

MRS.  JOHN  S.  EARNED.       MISS  H.  F.  GOULD. 

MISS  C.  E.  BEECHER.       MISS  C.  H.  WATERMAN. 

RT.  REV.  S.  M'COSKRY,  D.D.      RT.  REV.  L.  S.  IVES,  DD.  LL.D. 

REV.  H.  W,  DUCACHET. 

REV.  HORATIO  SOUTHGATE.       REV.  H.  O.  DWIGHT. 

D.  B.   WOOD,  ESQ.       MISS  J.  W.   FRASER. 


LIST  OF  EMBELLISHMENTS. 


Subjects. 

Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  White 

The  Missionary 

The  Death  of  Sapphira 

Cottage  Piety 

The  Brahmin  Suicide 

Reflection 

The  Storm  in  Harvest 

The  PoHsh  Exile 

The  Shrine 

The  Morning  Walk 

Olympia  Fulvia  Morata 


Painters. 
INMAN 
MORTON 
OPIE 

T.  WEBSTER 
J.  SARTAIN 
MISS  SHARPE 
R.  WESTALL 
H.  CORBOULD 
P.  WILLIAMS 
BARCLAY 
R.  WESTALL 


Engravers.  Page 

DODSON    Frontispiece 
w.  E.  TUCKER      Title 

G.  B.  ELLIS  41 

W.  H.  ELLIS  79 
R.  HINSHELWOOD  103 

J.  CHENEY  145 

W.  H.  ELLIS  171 

J.  B.  NEAGLE  205 

G.  B.  ELLIS  235 

J.  B.  FORREST  249 

DODSON  275 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Preface         .... 

Introduction 

In  Bereavement 

Bishop  White 

Invitation  to  go  on  Pilgrimage 

The  Devoted 

A  Parent's  Prayer 

The  Gospel 

The  Bond  of  Peace     - 

The  Friend  above 

Tlie  Death  of  Sapphira 

True  Heroism 

Prayer  .... 

A  Mother  to  her  Sleeping  Children 

Who  was  Mary  Magdalen  ? 

The  Envied  One 

Cottage  Piety 

The  Passage  of  the  Jordan 

A  Visit  to  Loch  Lomond    - 

The  Brahmin  Suicide 

The  Spring  Bird 

Fanny  Moreland 

What  is  a  Name  ? 

Valiant  for  the  Truth 

Creation  full  of  Active  Life 

Peace  .... 

Reflection    .... 

My  Country 

The  Sister  Rose 

Consolations  of  Christianity 

Trees  for  the  Pilgrim's  Wreath 

The  Storm  in  Harvest 


MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY 
STEPHEN  H.  TVNG,  D.D. 
JAMES   MONTGOMERY 
WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN     - 
REV.  LEONARD  WITHINGTON 
H.  P.  G. 

REV.  HERMAN  HOOKER 
MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY 
MISS  H.  F.  GOULD 
REV.  JOHN  TODD 
GRENVILLE  MELLEN       - 
MRS.  JOHN  S.  LARNED 
MRS.  OPIE     .... 
MRS.  OPIE     .... 
J.  K.  MITCHELL,  M.D. 
REV.  J.  H.  CLINCH 
REV.  JOHN  S.  STONE      - 
WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN      - 
REV.  M.  A.  D'W.   HOWE 
CATHERINE  E.  BEECHER 
GRENVILLE  MELLEN      - 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY    - 
REV.  NEHEMIAH  ADAMS 
MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY 
WILLIS  G.  CLARK 
REV.  WILLIAM  S.  PLUMER     - 
DANIEL  B.  WOOD 
WILLIAM  G.  GODDj\.RD 
H.  F.  GOULD 
MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY 


Page 

7 

9 

10 

11 

27 

28 

29 

32 

33 

40 

41 

43 

68 

69 

71 

75 

79 

89 

93 

103 

106 

107 

122 

123 

125 

143 

145 

147 

163 

165 

170 

171 


VI 


TABLE    OF    COX  TENTS. 


H.  F.  GOULD 

MRS.  COPLEY 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY   - 

JANE  W. FRArER 

CATHARINE  H.  WATERMAN 

GRENTILLE  MELLEN      - 


The  Cave  of  Machpelah     - 

The  Two  Trios    - 

Looking  to  Jesus 

A  Midnight  Thought  - 

The  Polish  Esile 

Thou  art  of  my  Spirit 

Hannah  More  and  W.  Wilberforce    william  b.  spragce.  d.d. 

The  Believer's  Prospect 

The  Pawnee  Group     - 

The  Shrine ;  or.  Local  Emotions 

The  Morning  Walk    - 

Baptism  for  the  Dead,  in  China 

The  Martyred  Missionary 

Augustus  Foster  Lyde 

OljTnpia  Fulvia  Morata     - 

Peace  of  Mind    .        -        -        • 

Influence  of  Literature 

Reminiscences     .        -        -        - 

Consistency  of  Religious  Character  rev.  enoch  pond 

To  a  Young  Ladv  in  a  Ball  Dress     rev.  m.  a.  dw.  howe 


D.  A.  s. 

the  editor 

rev.  a.  BARNES 

catharine  h.  waterman 
rev.  robert  philip  - 
heman  hcmphrey,  D.d. 
rev.  john  w.  browne 
kev.  charles  henry  alden 
thomas  raffles,  d.d. 
alonzo  potter,  d.d. 
mrs.  anne  grant 


Page 
176 
179 
•20-2 
20.3 
205 
207 
209 
222 
223 
235 
249 
251 
267 
273 
275 
278 
281 
292 
299 
310 


PREFACE. 


The  present  work  has  been  undertaken  with  a  view  of 
ministering  to  the  moral  improvement,  as  well  as  to  the  in- 
tellectual enjoyment,  of  that  class  of  readers  among  whom 
an  Annual  would  be  likely  to  find  favour.  It  is  believed 
that  an  American  Annual  of  a  high  literary  order,  and  of  a 
decidedly  religious  character — glancing  in  several  of  its 
articles  at  Missionary  topics,  and  the  great  interests  of 
Christian  benevolence,  in  conjunction  with  all  the  other 
kindred  subjects  common  to  a  work  of  this  description, 
would,  in  several  respects,  be  eminently  useful. 

Such  a  work  would  contribute  to  throw  a  hallowing  in- 
fluence around  American  literature,  and  fiirnish  to  the  youth 
of  this  land  additional  proof,  that,  so  far  from  there  being 
any  thing  in  religion  repugnant  to  a  pure  and  cultivated 
taste,  there  is  no  field  into  which  the  student  in  polite  litera- 
ture can  go  and  find  such  choice,  beautifiil,  and  fragrant 
flowers,  as  those  which  bloom  on  Zion's  hill,  or  dip  their 
pendent  petals  in  the  brimming  edge 

'•  Of  Siloa's  brook,  that  flows 

Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God."' 

Such  a  work  would  enable  parents  and  Christian  friends 
to  confer  the  means  of  spiritual  instruction,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  were  gratifying  tliose  kind  feeUngs  of  their 
heart,  awakened  by  the  retm-n  of  the  Christmas  and  New 
Year  holidays.  In  putting  such  an  Annual  into  the  hands 
of  their  children  and  yoimg  friends,  they  would  feel  they 


Viii  PREFACE. 

were  bringing  them  under  an  influence  that  would  tend  to 
improve  their  heart  and  expand  their  intellect,  as  well  as 
gratify  their  taste  and  regale  their  imagination. 

And  finally,  such  a  work  would  have  a  tendency  to  fasten 
divine  truth  upon  minds  that  could  scarcely  be  reached  in 
any  other  way.  I  will  suppose  that  the  ornamented  and 
elegantly  bound  volume  is  purchased  and  laid  upon  the 
centre-table,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  lesson  of 
holy  instruction  it  is  intended  to  convey.  This  volume  has 
inscribed  upon  its  gilded  pages  the  words  of  eternal  life. 
It  is  caught  up  in  some  moment  of  thoughtlessness  or  of 
ennui ;  and  just  then  speaks  to  the  eye,  that  holds  commu- 
nion with  its  pages,  so  winningly  of  Christ  and  eternal 
things — or  breathes  forth  upon  the  listening  ear  notes  of 
heaven  so  sweetly,  that  from  that  hour  there  begins  in  tlie 
heart  a  work  of  transformation  that  will  terminate  in  the 
everlasting  salvation  of  one  of  the  gayest  and  most  thought- 
less of  earth's  children. 

That  this  work  will  come  fully  up  to  this  high  measure 
of  excellence,  the  Editor  dares  not  promise.  But  he  feels 
that  in  the  names  which  stand  at  the  heads  of  the  articles  in 
this  volume,  together  with  those  which  constitute  the  list  of 
pledged  contributors,  representing  as  they  do  not  a  few  of 
the  most  distinguished  writers  and  clergymen  both  in  this 
country  and  in  England,  there  will  be  a  sufficient  guarantee 
that  this  work  will  be  one  of  an  interesting,  as  well  as  of  a 
sound  and  substantial  character. 

In  conclusion,  he  would  only  add  the  hope  expressed  by 
the  poet  Montgomery,  in  a  letter  containing  his  contribu- 
tions to  this  volume, — "That  this  Annual  may  prove  a 
Perennial — that  all  the  plants  it  produces  may  be  Amaranths, 
that  grow  yet  on  earth,  but  only  where  the  air  of  Paradise 
blows  over  a  soil  hallowed,  as  I  trust  every  inch  of  groimd 
in  this  new  enclosure  will  be,  for  devotion  and  edification." 


THE 


CHRISTIAN    KEEPSAKE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

Go  forth,  fair  Volume,  on  thy  work  of  love, — 
'Mid  halls  of  wealth,  the  holy  thought  to  wake ; 

Or  teach  the  tender  heart  of  heathen  wo. 
And  rouse  its  pity  for  a  Saviour's  sake. 

Portray  the  mother,  wrapp'd  in  Pagan  night. 

Who  roams  where  Ganges  laves  the  burning  sod, 

And  from  her  breast  the  sentenced  infant  tears, 
And  counts  that  anguish  incense  to  her  God ! 

Tint  the  red  flame,  and  paint  the  gazing  throng. 
Where  sultry  India  rears  the  funeral  pyre ; 

Plead  for  the  widow,  ere  the  thundering  gong 
Drowns  the  last  wild  shriek  of  her  death  of  fire. 

Point  to  the  rush  of  disembodied  souls, 

Untaught  of  Him  who  shed  his  blood  to  save : 

Haste, — wake  the  Christian  from  his  dream  supine, 
And  bid  him  tell  of  life  beyond  the  grave. 

B 


10  IN   BEREAVEMENT. 

Yes, — bid  him  bear  the  news  from  clime  to  clime, — 
From  the  green  tropic  to  the  farthest  pole, 

So,  shall  thy  mission  wear  an  angel's  smile, 
And  thy  still  voice  breathe  blessings  on  the  soul. 

Hartford,  (Con.) 


IN    BEREAVEMENT. 


BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


Lift  up  thine  eyes,  afflicted  soul ! 

From  earth  uplift  thine  eyes, 
Though  dark  the  evening  shadows  roll, 

And  daylight  beauty  dies ; 
One  sun  is  set, — a  thousand  more 

Their  rounds  of  glory  run, 
Where  science  leads  thee  to  explore 

In  every  star  a  sun. 

Thus  when  some  long-loved  comfort  ends, 

And  nature  would  despair. 
Faith  to  the  heaven  of  heavens  ascends 

And  meets  ten  thousand  there ; 
First  faint  and  small,  then  clear  and  bright, 

They  gladden  all  the  gloom. 
As  stars,  that  seem  but  points  of  light, 

The  rank  of  suns  assume. 

Sheffield,  (Eng.)  183G. 


11 


BISHOP  WHITE. 

BY  STEPHEN  H.  TYNG,  D.D. 

My  father !  my  father !  the  chariot  of  Israel  and  the  horsemen 
thereof — 2  Kings,  xiii.  14. 

How  justly  may  we  apply  this  exclamation  to  the 
venerable  man  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  this 
article, — whether  in  the  mere  sentiment  which  it  con- 
veys, or  in  the  illustration  which  is  offered  in  the  cha- 
racter of  the  prophet  over  whom  it  was  uttered !  The 
similarity  which  gives  occasion  to  this  illustration,  I 
have  often  loved  to  trace.  Elisha  appears  to  have 
united  in  himself  many  of  those  qualities,  which  often 
render  men  remarkable  in  their  single  possession.  Un- 
varying gentleness  was  incorporated  in  him  with  great 
decision.  Benevolence  of  the  most  disinterested  cha- 
racter shone  entwined  with  an  uncompromising  fidelity. 
Tenderness  to  the  poor  and  the  distressed  softened  with 
its  mild  beauty,  remarkable  boldness  to  the  great  and 
the  aspiring.  He  could  encourage  piety  and  rebuke 
transgression ;  he  could  comfort  and  cheer  the  sorrow- 
ful, and  overawe  and  humble  the  ambitious  and  worldly; 
with  equal  ease  and  equal  accuracy.  We  see  him  at 
one  time,  with  filial  humility,  washing  the  feet  of  Elijah 
his  spiritual  father,  and  eagerly  catching  the  symbolic 
mantle  as  it  fell  from  him,  on  his  transition  to  glory ; 
and  then  with  solemn  sternness  and  majesty  repelling 


12  BISHOP   WHITE. 

a  suppliant  king  for  his  idolatry,  with  the  rebuke, 
"  What  liave  I  to  do  with  thee  1  Get  thee  to  the  pro- 
phets of  thy  father,  and  the  prophets  of  thy  mother." 
We  behold  him  with  affectionate  tenderness,  consoling 
the  sorrows,  and  supplying  the  wants,  of  the  poor  widow 
of  a  prophet,  relieving  her  from  beggary,  and  her  chil- 
dren from  bondage ;  and  then  with  a  noble  disinterest- 
edness and  dignity,  disregarding  the  pride,  and  refusing 
the  munificence  of  a  Syrian  prince.  We  see  him  in 
the  entire  self-possession  of  true  politeness  and  con- 
scious worth,  at  home  in  the  residence  of  the  great 
woman  of  Shunem ;  and  then  travelling  in  meekness 
with  his  staff,  to  stretch  himself  upon  the  body  of  her 
breathless  child,  that  he  might  restore  him  to  his  mo- 
ther, alive  from  the  dead.  We  find  him  calm  and  un- 
disturbed, when  Samaria  is  encompassed  by  a  warlike 
host,  looking  with  an  eye  of  faith  upon  chariots  of  de- 
fence which  others  did  not  see ;  and  sitting  patient  and 
contented,  when  he  knew  tliat  his  own  ungrateful  king 
had  sent  messengers  to  destroy  him ; — and  then  gener- 
ously encouraging  the  very  same  king  and  his  equally 
wicked  people,  in  the  midst  of  a  distressing  famine, 
with  the  assurance  of  an  immediate  and  abundant  sup- 
ply of  food.  He  was  thus  guided  by  a  spirit  wholly 
above  the  world,  and  unmoved  by  earthly  things ;  kind 
and  full  of  love,  but  never  compromising  truth  for  ten- 
derness, or  fidelity  even  for  peace.  This  was  the  cha- 
racter of  this  prophet  of  Israel,  through  a  life  of  ninety, 
and  a  ministry  of  more  than  sixty  years, — "  the  chariot 
of  Israel  and  the  horsemen  thereof;" — the  chief  orna- 
ment and  defence  of  the  people  with  whom  he  lived. 

How  much  is  there,  in  all  these  circumstances,  which 
is  descriptive — singularly  and  beautifully  descriptive — 


BISHOP   WHITE.  X3 

of  the  character  and  history  of  the  venerable  Bishop 
White  !  And  how  applicable  to  that  honoured  man  is 
the  exclamation,  which  describes  the  ornament  and 
defence  of  Israel!  I  would  not  attempt  to  speak 
particularly  of  his  private  religious  character ;  of  his 
state  of  mind  towards  God ;  of  his  personal  experience 
of  the  power  of  the  gospel; — not  that  these  are  not 
of  vast  importance  to  us,  and  worthy  of  our  remark, 
but  that  I  have  not  room  to  consider  more  than  that 
public  character  which  all  could  see.  The  lovely  and 
benignant  fruits  of  personal  piety  which  we  have  seen 
in  his  life,  could  have  grown  only  upon  the-  stock  of 
grace,  divinely  bestowed,  and  cultivated  by  the  Spirit 
of  God ;  and  we  may  rejoice  that  grace  had  prospered 
in  the  production  of  a  life  so  devoted  to  the  glory  of 
God,  and  to  the  best  interests  of  man.  I  would  describe 
some  traits  of  liis  public  character,  as  the  ornament  and 
defence  of  the  Christian  body  to  which  he  so  long  be- 
longed. 

He  was  so,  as  a  man  of  learning.  His  cultivation 
and  acquirements  of  mind  were  of  a  high  and  valuable 
order.  No  man  of  reasonable  intelligence  could  have 
passed  through  so  long  a  course  of  observation  of  men 
and  things,  amidst  such  peculiar  changes  as  he  saw, 
without  gaining  much  information  and  wisdom.  But  it 
is  not  so  much  of  this  kind  of  learning  that  I  speak. 
Bishop  White  was  not  only  in  men  and  things,  but  in 
books  also,  a  mature  and  cultivated'  scholar.  His  know- 
ledge in  all  departments  of  science  was  sufficiently  ex- 
tensive, to  merit,  and  to  gain,  the  respect  of  wise  and 
learned  men.  There  was  one  branch  of  learning,  how- 
ever, in  which  he  was  peculiarly  the  honour  and  de- 
fence of  the  church   in  which  lie  was  the  presiding 


14  BISHOP   WHITE. 

overseer.  It  was  his  knowledge  of  history  and  facts. 
He  was  familiar  with  the  events  of  every  age  of  the 
church.  His  reading  upon  this  subject  had  been  un- 
usually extensive ;  and  his  memory  retained  with  a 
remarkable  tenacity,  and  produced  with  a  readiness 
equally  surprising,  the  results  of  his  reading,  for  the 
benefit  and  guidance  of  others.  His  assertions  upon 
points  of  history  remained  among  us  unquestioned. 
Universal  confidence  in  his  learning  gave  universal 
authority  to  his  opinions.  His  learning  was  not  often 
produced,  in  controversy  for  the  outworks  of  the  church, 
because  for  that  he  had  no  disposition.  But  it  decided 
questions  of  fact ;  it  elucidated  points  of  practice ;  it 
explained  the  necessity  and  operation  of  laws,  in  our 
communion ;  with  a  precision  which  rarely  afforded  an 
opening  for  appeal.  Men  best  qualified  to  judge,  have 
often  expressed  their  astonishment  at  the  readiness 
with  which  he  adduced  authorities;  and  the  wisdom 
with  which  from  them  he  guided  others  to  desirable 
results.  It  became  among  us  a  settled  principle,  that 
in  stating  facts,  and  pointing  out  their  consequences. 
Bishop  White  was  very  rarely  in  the  wrong. 

In  his  wisdom,  and  prudence  in  government  and 
counsel^  he  was  the  ornament  and  defence  of  the  church. 
In  his  public  acts,  he  had  very  little  occasion  for  that 
retracing  and  correcting  process,  which  is  often  so 
laborious  and  painful  to  other  men.  He  weighed  ma- 
turely, and  apparently  without  the  perverting  of  pas- 
sion, the  probable  consequences  of  measures  which 
were  proposed ;  and  when  he  settled  upon  any  course, 
as  the  one  to  be  selected,  the  facts  in  the  case  gene- 
rally justified  the  wisdom  of  his  calculation  and  his 
choice.     This  peculiar  habit  of  character  rendered  him 


BISHOP   WHITE.  15 

especially  adapted  to  the  circumstances,  amidst  which 
God  had  raised  him  up,  to  promote  the  prosperity  of  the 
Episcopal  church  in  this  country.  It  was  his  part,  to 
guide  this  church  when  in  an  infant  and  struggling 
state,  not  only  unprotected  by  civil  influence,  but  amidst 
vast  surrounding  prejudice,  through  many  and  bewil- 
dering trials.  The  correction  of  the  Liturgy;  the 
arrangements  of  spiritual  government ;  the  proper  defi- 
nition and  limiting  of  ministerial  power,  and  of  corre- 
sponding subjection ;  the  forming  of  a  full  constitution 
for  an  ecclesiastical  community  thrown  into  contingen- 
cies which  had  no  precedent  in  history,  and  looking 
forward  from  exceeding  weakness  to  extended  and  effi- 
cient strength ;  these  all  required  in  him,  who,  though 
not  entirely  alone,  was  in  all  respects  the  leader  and 
guide  of  others,  and  found  in  him  also,  a  most  uncom- 
mon union  of  the  qualities  best  adapted  to  the  call  thus 
made  upon  him.  I  know  not  which  is  more  the  real 
fact  in  the  history  of  the  world,  that  circumstances 
make  the  man,  or  that  the  man  makes  the  circum- 
stances around  himself;  for  certain  occasions  in  history 
seem  to  be  as  much  formed  by  certain  men  connected 
with  them,  as  the  characters  of  these  men  to  be  formed 
by  them.  In  the  history  of  this  country,  there  seem  to 
have  been  especially  provided,  in  the  various  depart- 
ments of  its  settlement  of  principles,  just  the  individuals 
who  were  needed  for  each  purpose ;  so  that  in  looking 
back  upon  the  conduct  of  these  men,  we  feel  the  con- 
viction, that  but  for  them,  in  their  various  classes  of 
duty,  the  great  works  which  they  accomplished  must 
have  been  left  undone.  In  our  religious  community. 
Bishop  White  was  almost  alone,  and  required  and  ex- 
ercised the  wisdom  which  was  combined  in  them.     In 


16  BISHOP   WHITE. 

this  peculiar  aspect  of  his  character,  as  long  as  the 
Episcopal  church  shall  stand  in  this  country,  he  will  be 
the  more  extensively  regarded,  and  the  more  highly 
appreciated,  as  the  father  of  all  its  prosperity.  One 
less  wise  and  collected  than  he,  in  the  hours  of  early 
doubt  and  difficulty,  would  have  been  wholly  incompe- 
tent to  guide  and  establish,  as  under  the  blessing  of 
God,  he  has  done,  the  church  for  which  he  laboured, 
upon  such  permanent  and  undoubted  principles. 

He  was  the  ornament  and  defence  of  the  church, 
in  his  peculiar  moderation  in  the  assertion  of  discri- 
minating principles.  Upon  the  questions  which  sepa- 
rate the  Episcopal  church  from  other  branches  of 
professed  Christians,  he  was  thoroughly  decided,  but 
never  exclusive  or  hostile.  He  maintained  and  defend- 
ed the  ministry  of  his  church,  upon  the  simple,  positive 
ground  of  its  divine  institution.  But  he  never  carried 
out  his  exposition  of  its  principles  and  rights,  to  the 
issue  of  denying  the  authority,  or  invalidating  the 
ministrations  of  others.  His  moderate  and  meek  de- 
fence of  Episcopal  claims  awakened  no  prejudice,  and 
built  up  no  wall  of  opposition  against  itself;  but  com- 
mended itself  to  the  acknowledgment  and  respect  of 
those  who  most  widely  differed  from  him.  This  mode- 
ration was  all-important  to  tlie  prosperity  of  the  church. 
It  is  mainly  this  which  has  raised  the  Episcopal  church, 
in  the  city  in  which  he  lived,  to  the  rank  she  holds,  and 
has  commanded  for  her,  surroimding  respect  and  admi- 
ration. Upon  this  subject  Bishop  White  was  particu- 
larly tenacious.  One  of  the  latest  efforts  of  his  mind 
was  a  charge  to  tlie  clergy  of  his  diocess,  exhorting 
them  to  hold  fast  the  moderate  principles  of  Episcopacy 
in  which  they  had  prospered  so  well.     In  this  he  was 


BISHOP   WHITE.  17 

their  ornament  and  defence.  Wherever  he  was  seen, 
tlie  moderation  and  meekness  which  characterised  his 
assertion  of  separating-  principles,  carried  forward  the 
church  which  he  represented,  with  an  universally  con- 
ceded tribute  of  respect.  He  offended  and  alienated 
none  by  harshly  denying"  claims  which  they  honestly 
made,  or  by  treating  with  unkind  disrespect,  rights 
which  they  supposed  themselves  to  possess.  He  carried 
out  his  own  principles  in  meekness  and  truth,  refusing 
to  none  the  relative  respect  for  which  they  felt  them- 
selves allowed  to  look. 

Considered  in  his  candid  and  conciliatory  spirit,  he 
was  equally  the  ornament  and  defence  of  the  church. 
He  could  always  understand  and  concede  the  excel- 
lencies of  those  who  were  opposed  to  himself  In  his 
intercourse  with  other  men,  so  far  was  he  from  assum- 
ing any  thing  upon  the  ground  of  his  age  or  station, 
that  he  appeared  rather  like  a  learner,  in  search  of  the 
very  information  which  he  was  best  able  to  communi- 
cate. As  he  mingled  with  others,  he  so  placed  himself 
upon  an  entire  level  with  all,  and  so  contended  with 
them  only  in  showing  mutual  respect,  that  no  enmity 
could  ever  rise  up  against  him,  and  no  jealousy  could  be 
excited  of  any  pretensions  which  he  might  be  supposed 
to  urge.  The  youngest  man  who  sought  access  to  him, 
and  conversation  with  him,  found  him  as  affable  and 
unpretending,  at  the  distance  of  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury in  experience,  as  if  they  had  passed  with  equal 
steps  through  life.  The  effect  of  this  character  was, 
that  none  were  afraid  of  exalting  him  too  much,  or  of 
yielding-  to  him  too  entirely.  He  was  allowed  to  stand 
every  where  at  the  head  without  depreciation.  No 
rival  ever  appeared  to  contest  with  him  the  post  of 

c 


18  BISHOP    WHITE. 

honour.  No  one  was  ever  mortified  when  he  was  pre- 
ferred. In  the  councils  of  the  Episcopal  church  his 
conciliatory  spirit,  his  candid  and  open  course  of  con- 
duct, have  always  been  one  of  the  chief  bonds  of  union 
and  peace.  None  could  wound  another  through  him, 
and  he  stood  forward  as  the  shield  and  defender  of  all. 
Always  on  the  side  of  moderation,  calmness,  and  mutual 
concession,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  more  honourable 
to  the  church  in  which  he  presided,  than  that  he  always 
carried  the  large  majority  with  him.  An  interesting 
and  instructive  exhibition  of  this  conciliating  spirit 
was  also  presented  in  his  connexion  with  the  minis- 
ters and  laymen  of  other  denominations  of  Christians. 
In  many  of  the  great  efforts  of  benevolence  in  which 
members  of  various  classes  of  Christians  are  united, 
but  especially  in  the  effort  for  distributing  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  he  was  much  engaged.  The  following 
extract  from  one  of  his  addresses  to  the  Female  Bible 
Society  of  Philadelphia,  over  whose  interests  he  pre- 
sided for  more  than  twenty  years,  will  give  a  pleasing 
instance  of  this  spirit,  as  well  as  of  his  opinion  upon 
the  subject  of  which  it  speaks : — "  It  has  been  thought 
an  incidental  advantage  arising  from  Bible  Societies, 
that  by  combining  persons  of  different  religious  denomi- 
nations, they  have  the  effect  of  promoting  unity  of 
affection  under  irreconcileable  differences  of  opinion. 
The  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society  set  off  on  the 
fundamental  principle,  of  avoiding  whatever  could 
bring  such  diversity  into  view.  They  professed  to  de- 
liver the  Book  of  God  without  note  or  comment.  The 
societies  instituted  in  America  liave  trodden  in  their 
steps.  While  this  plan  shall  be  pursued,  there  can  be 
no  dissatisfaction  on  account  of  interfering  opinions  or 


BISHOP   WHITE.  19 

modes  of  worship.  Is  it  possible,  that  such  a  course 
can  be  persevered  in,  without  its  contributing  to  all  the 
charities  of  life]  And  if  this  is  the  natural  conse- 
quence, can  any  scruple  be  well  founded,  which  would 
restrict  the  benefit  to  men '?" 

His  universal  popularity  made  him  also  the  orna- 
ment and  defence  of  the  church.  In  this  he  was  most 
unusually  favoured.  He  lived  and  died  in  the  midst  of 
a  world  of  friends,  and  without  a  single  foe.  That 
character  of  which  all  men  speak  well,  is  made,  in  a 
general  view  of  it,  the  subject  of  divine  warning,  be- 
cause, from  the  general  principles  of  mankind,  it  can 
hardly  be  supposed  that  any  man  has  gained  such  a 
character,  without  some  improper  compromise  with  the 
sins  of  men.  But  in  this  case  there  seemed  no  relin- 
quishment of  entire  independence  of  principle  and  ac- 
tion, to  gain  the  favour  of  others.  He  was,  indeed, 
remarkably  independent  of  the  opinions  of  other  men, 
in  his  rule  of  action.  His  popularity  appeared  to  be  the 
legitimate  and  resistless  triumph  of  virtue  and  excel- 
lence. It  was  a  most  important  fact  for  the  church. 
For  half  a  century  he  stood  before  the  world  the  leader 
of  our  spiritual  body — the  fatlier  of  our  household ;  so 
bright  and  attractive  in  his  character,  that  like  some 
mountain's  top,  upon  which  tlie  sun  shines  clearly, 
above  the  belt  of  clouds  which  encompasses  it  below, 
he  was  always  an  eminent  point  for  honourable  notice, 
though  occasional  darkness  might  cover  parts  of  the 
church  beneath  him.  We  delighted  to  point  to  him  as 
ours,  because  all  men  respected  and  honoured  him. 
Tlie^  cJiurch  was  honoured  for  his  sake.  The  clergy 
were  esteemed  in  him  their  representative.  Both  have 
grown  and  flourished  amidst  the  beams  of  his  character. 


20  BISHOP   WHITE. 

0 

The  spirit  in  him  which  was  thus  popular,  has  been  much 
disseminated  through  our  spiritual  body.  It  has  made  it 
the  minister  of  peace  in  a  distracted  community,  bear- 
ing every  where  the  olive  branch,  and  opening  every 
where  the  ark,  to  agitated  and  tempest-tossed  souls. 

He  was  the  ornament  and  defence  of  the  church,  in 
his  usefulness  to  men.  There  are  certainly  two  very 
distinct  and  comparable  methods  of  doing  good  in  the 
gospel  ministry.  The  one  supposes  strong  action,  and 
expects  immediate  results.  The  other  lays  its  plans 
distant,  and  more  slowly  and  perseveringly  works  for- 
ward to  attain  them.  Which,  in  the  life  of  man,  is 
likely  to  accomplish  the  greater  amount  of  benefit  to 
others,  I  presume  not  to  determine.  The  usefulness  of 
Bishop  White  was  of  the  latter  description.  As  a 
preacher,  he  was  never  awakening  or  exciting  in  his 
manner  of  declaring  the  truth;  but  he  faithfully  en- 
couraged those  who  were  more  so.  He  exhibited,  in 
his  punctual  discharge  of  duty  in  this  relation,  in  his 
wise  and  instructive  sermons,  and  his  permanent  deter- 
mination to  speak  for  God  as  long  as  he  should  speak  at 
all,  an  example  which  was  of  a  high  value.  As  a  pas- 
tor, he  began  his  ministry  at  a  time  when  plans  for  pa- 
rochial usefulness  were  very  different  from  those  which 
we  now  pursue.  But  no  man  was  ever  more  punctual 
and  assiduous  in  discharging  the  duties  to  which  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  feel  himself  called.  No  labour, 
no  circumstances  of  difficulty,  ever  drove  him  back  from 
what  he  considered  his  duty  as  a  minister  of  Christ. 
And  he  gladly  encouraged  others  in  the  plans  of  pasto- 
ral ministry,  which  they  found  to  be  productive  of 
benefit  to  the  people  committed  to  them,  though  differ- 
ing from  those  pursued  by  himself.     His  actual  useful- 


BISHOP    WHITE.  21 

ness  in  the  city  in  which  he  lived,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  estimate.  He  was  an  encourager  of  every  man  and 
thing  that  he  thought  likely  to  work  for  the  benefit  of 
men.  Every  good  man  found  a  friend  in  Bishop  White. 
He  rejoiced  in  their  elevation  to  influence,  and  de- 
lighted to  encourage  them  and  to  build  them  up  in  the 
work  of  the  Lord.  As  an  useful  man,  this  community 
will  long  esteem  and  honour  him.  He  will  be  remem- 
bered as  an  example,  for  generations  yet  to  come. 
Indolence,  and  carelessness,  and  persecution,  and  bit- 
terness, and  time-serving,  and  selfishness,  will  all  re- 
ceive a  severe  and  decided  rebuke,  from  the  character 
and  ministry  of  this  aged  and  eminent  prophet  of  Israel. 

There  was  one  trait,  however,  in  Bishop  White's  public 
as  well  as  private  character,  in  which  he  was  eminently 
an  example.  It  was  the  habit  of  uniform  and  extreme 
punctuality.  He  was  perhaps  never  known  to  be  behind 
the  time  of  any  engagement.  At  all  meetings  for 
business,  as  well  as  in  the  public  services  of  religious 
worship,  he  was  uniformly  on  the  spot  at  the  appointed 
hour.  He  was  so  tenacious  upon  this  point,  that  he 
once  told  me,  if  he  had  his  life  to  pass  again,  he  thought 
he  never  would  be  engaged  in  business  with  a  man  a 
second  time,  who  had  once  deceived  him  in  this  re- 
spect ;  saying  beside,  "  I  have  lost  the  lifetime  of  many 
men,  in  the  hours  which  have  been  wasted  in  waiting 
for  other  people."  This  habit  was  too  much  a  peculi- 
arity in  him.  It  will  be  well  for  all  of  us  who  come 
after  him,  to  catch  this  mantle  as  it  has  fallen,  and  save 
for  others  and  for  ourselves  the  many  hours,  the  loss  of 
which,  as  sacrificed  to  the  will  of  others,  he  mourned. 

Well  may  we  exclaim  over  him,  "  My  father,  my  fa- 
ther; the  chariot  of  Israel  and  the  horsemen  thereof." 


22  BISHOP   WHITE. 

When  thou  art  gone,  who  is  leff?  Where  shall  we 
find  thine  equal?  Who  can  supply  the  place  which 
thou  hast  left  vacant]  When  will  another  example 
like  thine,  dignify  and  adorn  the  world! 

I  have  thus  merely  exhibited  some  of  those  aspects 
of  the  public  and  relative  character  of  the  venerable 
Bishop  White,  which  were  the  subjects  of  common  ob- 
servation, and  might  not  improperly  be  called  the  com- 
mon property  of  men.  They  constituted  him,  in  a  very 
peculiar  sense,  the  ornament  and  defence  of  the  church 
to  which  he  belonged,  and  a  guide  and  example  for  all 
by  whom  he  was  surrounded  in  life.  Through  such  a 
day  of  public  usefulness,  unusually  prolonged,  he  came 
down  to  the  close  of  his  earthly  course.  And  it  will 
not  be  considered  an  improper  close  of  the  present  ar- 
ticle, to  give  some  slight  sketch  of  the  history  and  cir- 
cumstances of  such  a  life.  He  was  born  in  Philadel- 
phia, in  April,  1748.  He  was  ordained  to  the  ministry 
of  the  gospel  in  1770.  He  was  consecrated  a  bishop  in 
1787.  So  that  at  the  time  of  his  death,  he  was  in  the 
eighty-ninth  year  of  his  age,  in  the  sixty-sixth  year  of 
his  ministry,  and  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  episcopate. 
He  was  buried  in  the  church  edifice  in  which  he  was 
baptized,  and  in  which  his  whole  ministry  had  been 
passed ;  literally  fiilfilling  that  beautiful  description  of 
steady  and  permanent  comfort  and  repose  in  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  present  life,  which  Job  gives,  as  the 
early  desire  and  plan  of  his  heart :  "  Then  I  said  I  shall 
die  in  my  nest :  I  shall  multiply  my  days  as  the 
sand." 

Bishop  White  has  stated  that  religious  impressions 
were  very  early  made  upon  his  mind,  for  which  he  was 
much  indebted  to  the  counsels  of  maternal  piety.    And 


BISHOP   WHITE.  23 

as  his  boyhood  was  yielding  to  maturity,  these  early 
efforts  of  the  Spirit  in  his  heart,  resulted  in  the  deter- 
mined choice  of  the  service  of  God,  as  the  portion  of 
his  sOul ;  and  of  the  ministry  of  the  gospel,  as  the  em- 
ployment of  his  life.  From  his  childhood  there  was 
manifestly  a  gentleness,  and  retirement,  and  accuracy 
in  his  character,  which  allowed  not  much  room  for  a 
very  marked  external  change  of  conduct,  when  he  was 
finally  led  to  give  up  his  life  to  the  will  of  God.  Many 
interesting  anecdotes  are  told  of  his  youth,  illustrating 
this  point,  which  will  probably  be  given  in  the  extend- 
ed memoir  of  him  now  in  preparation.  One,  strikingly 
characteristic,  perhaps  unknown  to  others,  has  been 
told  me  from  the  recollections  of  a  lady  now  deceased, 
who  was  his  cotemporary  and  companion,  and  lived  in 
an  adjoining  house.  His  sports  as  a  boy  were  always 
quiet,  and  generally  solitary.  His  chief  amusement, 
at  one  time,  was  the  feeding  of  some  chickens,  which 
he  kept  in  his  father's  yard.  For  hours,  in  the  times 
of  recreation,  he  would  stand  with  his  back  against  the 
wall,  throwing  single  grains  of  corn  amidst  his  little 
flock,  seeming  in  deep  meditation,  while  he  watched 
them  scrambling  for  the  prize.  She  often  subsequently 
thought  of  this  habitual  employment,  as  singularly  de- 
scriptive of  the  Bishop  in  after  life,  thus  quietly  and 
gently  feeding  a  gathered  church  around  him.  This 
gentleness  and  peacefulness  of  mind  followed  him  from 
his  sports  to  his  ministry.  He  was  ordained  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty-two,  and  commenced  his  ministry 
in  his  paternal  sanctuary.  There  were  then  three 
Episcopal  churches  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia — Christ 
church,  which  had  been  the  result  of  the  efforts  of  the 
English  Society  for  Propagating  the  Gospel,  and  which 


24  BISHOP   WHITE. 

was  the  second  building-  erected  on  the  same  spot  for 
the  same  congregation ;  and  St.  Peter's  and  St.  Paul's. 
The  former  of  these  was  built  by  the  congregation  of 
Christ  church  in  union  with  that,  and  the  latter  by  a 
portion  of  the  same  congregation,  as  an  independent 
church.  There  was  not  always  a  kind  state  of  feeling 
between  the  rector  of  the  latter  and  the  rector  of  the 
united  churches.  But  Bishop  White,  from  the  very 
commencement  of  his  ministry,  exhibited  the  peaceful- 
ness  of  his  character,  in  maintaining  an  uniformly  af- 
fectionate and  friendly  intercourse  with  the  successive 
rectors  of  St.  Paul's,  above  all  the  smaller  jealousies 
to  which  others  had  submitted ;  and  that  congregation 
cherished  such  an  entire  confidence  in  him,  and  affec- 
tion for  him,  that  they  cordially  united  in  his  election 
as  their  bishop,  and  gladly  contributed  their  full  portion 
of  the  expense  of  his  visit  to  England  for  consecration. 
His  ministry  was  not  finished  until  he  had  seen  ten 
additional  churches  in  his  native  city,  that  found  their 
starting  point  and  origin  from  these  three. 

There  was  much  in  the  personal  appearance  of 
Bishop  White  which  was  calculated  to  excite  attention 
and  respect.*  Tall,  dignified,  and  erect  in  his  frame ; 
his  long  hair,  silvered  at  an  early  age ;  his  countenance 
kind,  and  open,  and  inviting ;  his  motions  calm  and 
gentle ;  his  dress  exceedingly  neat  and  uniform ; — all 
tended  to  impress  the  most  casual  observer  with  the 
feeling  of  reverence  and  esteem.  His  first  interview 
with  all  won  their  homage.     This  dignity  of  outward 

*  The  engraving  which  adorns  the  pref?ent  vohime  is  taken  from  a 
portrait  by  Mr.  Ininan,  which  is  considered  by  the  friends  of  Bishop 
Wliitc  to  be,  in  all  respects,  the  best  picture  of  him  which  has  been 
made. 


BISHOP   WHITE.  25 

appearance  remained,  and  increased  with  him  to  the 
end  of  life.  It  was  but  a  very  few  years  before  his 
death  that  the  debilitating'  power  of  age  seemed  to  have 
at  all  bowed  his  head,  or  unsettled  his  walk.  Then, 
so  long  had  he  been  accustomed  to  move  erectly  and 
steadily  by  himself,  he  could  hardly  yield  to  the  wish 
of  others  to  support  and  assist  him.  How  often  have 
younger  friends  longed  to  offer  the  strength  of  their 
arm,  when  his  steps  appeared  to  totter  in  the  street, 
esteeming  it  a  high  privilege  and  honour,  if  he  would 
consent  to  lean  upon  them !  How  often  have  they  fol- 
lowed him  in  the  street,  watching  his  motions,  and 
waiting  to  be  of  assistance  to  him,  while  he  went  slowly 
on,  resting  upon  his  cane !  I  have  more  than  once 
seen  several  persons  stand  together  at  a  corner  of  the 
street,  marking  his  slow  and  measured  step  in  cross- 
ing, and  the  difficulty  with  which  he  ascended  the  curb- 
stone of  the  side-walk,  anxious  for  his  safety,  and  ready 
to  catch  him  in  their  arms  if  he  should  fall.  This  was 
the  universal  feeling  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  city. 
There  were  few  who  did  not  know  the  person  of  Bishop 
White.  And  none  who  met  him  once,  would  fail  to 
turn  around  to  see  him,  in  the  acknowledgment  that  he 
was  an  uncommon  man.  Nor  could  any  one  who  had 
seen  him  even  once,  forget  the  impression  which  his 
appearance  thus  produced. 

There  was  no  very  evident  failure  of  his  intellectual 
powers  until  within  a  few  months  of  his  death.  His 
memory  seemed  to  live  nearly  as  long  as  himself  His 
judgment  and  wisdom  never  failed.  In  the  annual 
convention  of  this  diocess  in  May,  two  months  before 
his  decease,  we  perceived  for  the  first  time  on  such  an 
occasion,  that  his  mental  command  was  yielding; — a 

D 


26  BISHOP   WHITE. 

slight  confusion  of  memory  then,  seemed  to  indicate 
that  at  last  he  was  to  bear  the  common  lot  of  very  long 
lived  men.  After  this,  he  was  still  able  to  fulfil  the 
duties  of  his  ministry.  He  preached  within  three 
weeks  of  the  day  of  his  decease.  He  attended  the 
funeral  of  a  friend  but  a  fortnight  before  he  died.  From 
tliis  time  he  gently  sank  away,  until  "  he  was  not,  for 
God  took  him."  His  wish  to  depart  on  the  Lord's  day 
was  gratified ;  and  about  the  noon  of  the  Sabbath,  the 
17th  of  July,  1836,  when,  in  all  the  assemblies  for  wor- 
ship in  the  Episcopal  church  in  Philadelphia,  his  soul 
had  been  just  commended  to  God  in  united  prayer,  he 
fell  asleep  in  Jesus. 

When  such  a  man  has  been  with  us,  what  Christian 
connected  with  him,  will  not  feel  gratitude  to  God  for 
the  privilege  of  his  acquaintance]  It  is  an  honour 
to  have  been,  in  any  measure,  his  companion ;  and  to 
have  received  any  demonstrations  of  his  confidence  and 
kindness.  Who  will  not  feel  the  earnest  desire  to  fol- 
low in  his  steps  1  We  have  marked  the  perfect  man, 
and  beheld  the  upright,  and  have  seen  that  the  end  of 
that  man  is  peace.  How  much  we  all  need  the  meek 
and  blessed  traits  of  character  which  were  so  bright  in 
him !  Shall  we  not  determine,  too,  to  maintain  the 
principles  of  moderation  which  he  exemplified,  and 
proved  to  be  so  beneficial  ]  Shall  we  not  rejoice  to  lay 
hold  of,  and  retain,  the  glorious  hope  in  which  he  died  1 
Shall  we  not  follow  him  to  glory,  as  he  followed  Christ  ? 

Philadelphia. 


27 


INVITATION  TO  GO  ON  PILGRIMAGE. 

BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

Come  let  us  go  to  heaven ; — the  way, 
Like  darkness,  opens  into  day, 
When,  from  the  turning-  point  of  night, 
Breaks  the  first  beam  of  morning  light. 

Come  let  us  go  to  heaven ; — our  guide 
Is  Christ  who  lived,  is  Christ  who  died. 
And  rose  again  ; — his  staff  and  rod, 
Through  life  and  death,  will  lead  to  God. 

Come  let  us  go  to  heaven ; — forsake 
Sin,  death  and  hell ;  and  gladly  take 
His  easy  yoke,  his  welcome  load, 
And  brave  the  dangers  of  the  road. 

Come  let  us  go  to  heaven ; — and  press 
On  through  the  howling  wilderness ; 
Yet  fear  not,  little  flock !  though  foes, 
Without,  within,  your  course  oppose. 

Come  let  us  go  to  heaven ; — no  power, 

Not  Satan  raging  to  devour, 

Nor  all  his  hosts  can  harm ;  for  ye. 

Through  Christ,  shall  more  than  conquerors  be. 


28  THE    DEVOTED. 

Come  let  us  g-o  to  heaven ; — and  meet, 
Once  and  for  ever,  at  his  feet ; 
Yea,  in  his  kingdom,  as  his  own, 
Sit  down  with  him  upon  his  throne. 

Can  these  things  be  1 — they  are, — are  sure 
To  all  who  to  the  end  endure ; 
While  Unbelief  cries — Can  they  be? 
Come  let  us  go  to  heaven,  and  see. 

Sheffield,  (Eng.)  1836. 


THE  DEVOTED. 

BY  WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN. 

Oh,  blest  is  he  who  cares 

That  God  have  glory  given ; 
Whose  faith,  and  alms,  and  toils,  and  prayer; 

Are  leading  souls  to  heaven. 

And  greatly  blest  is  he 

Who  labours,  prays,  and  weeps 

That  Christ  may  of  his  travail  see 
Beyond  the  distant  deeps. 

Such,  entering  into  rest, 
The  Chinese,  sav'd,  shall  own; 

The  Hindoo,  there,  will  hail  him  "bless'd," 
And  children  of  Ceylon. 

Philadelphia. 


29 


A  PARENT'S  PRAYER. 


BY  REV.  LEONARD  WITHINGTON. 


I. 

At  this  hush'd  hour  when  all  my  children  sleep, 
Here  in  thy  presence,  gracious  God,  I  kneel ; 
And,  while  the  tears  of  gratitude  I  weep. 
Would  pour  the  prayer,  which  gratitude  must  feel ; 
Parental  love !  O  set  thy  holy  seal 
On  these  soft  hearts  which  thou  to  me  hast  sent; 
Repel  temptation,  guard  their  better  weal: 
Be  thy  pure  spirit  to  their  frailty  lent, 
And  lead  them  in  the  path  their  infant  Saviour  went. 

II. 

I  ask  not  for  them  eminence  or  wealth — 
For  these,  in  Wisdom's  view,  are  trifling  toys, — 
But  occupation,  competence,  and  health ; 
Thy  love,  thy  presence,  and  the  lasting  joys 
That  flow  therefrom ;  the  passion  which  employs 
The  breasts  of  holy  men ;  and  thus  to  be 
From  all  that  taints,  or  darkens,  or  destroys 
The  strength  of  principle,  for  ever  free: 
This  is  the  better  boon,  O  God,  I  ask  of  thee. 


30  A  PARENT'S   PRAYER. 

III. 

This  world,  I  know,  is  but  a  narrow  bridge, 
And  treacherous  waters  roar  and  foam  below; 
With  feeble  feet  we  walk  the  wooden  ridge 
Which  creaks  and  shakes  beneath  us  as  we  go ; 
Some  fall  by  accident,  and  thousands  throw 
Their  bodies  headlong  in  the  hungry  stream ; 
Some  sink  by  secret  means,  and  never  know 
The  hand  which  struck  them  from  their  transient 
dream, 
Till  Wisdom  wakes  in  death,  and  in  despair  they  scream. 

IV. 

If  these  soft  feet,  which  now  these  feathers  press, 
Are  doom'd  the  paths  of  ruin  soon  to  tread ; 
If  Vice,  conceal'd  in  her  unspotted  dress, 
Is  soon  to  lure  to  her  polluted  bed ; — 
If  thy  foreseeing  eye  discernest  a  thread 
Of  sable  guilt,  impelling  on  their  doom, 
O  spare  them  not — in  mercy  strike  them  dead ; 
Prepare  for  them  an  early,  welcome  tomb, 
Nor  for  eternal  blight  let  my  false  blossoms  bloom ! 

V. 

But  if  some  useful  path  before  them  lie. 
Where  they  may  walk  obedient  to  thy  laws; 
Though  never  basking  in  Ambition's  eye. 
And  pamper'd  never  with  the  world's  applause ; 
Active,  yet  humble;  virtuous  too;  the  cause 
Of  virtue  in  the  dwellings  where  they  dwell; 
Still  following  where  thy  perfect  Spirit  draws ; 
Releasing  others  from  the  bands  of  hell ; — 
If  this  be  life,  then  let  them  longer  live:  'tis  well. 


A    PARENT'S    PRAYER.  31 

VI. 

And  teach  me,  Power  Supreme,  in  their  green  days. 
With  meekest  skill  thy  lessons  to  impart, — 
To  shun  the  harlot,  and  to  show  the  maze 
Through  which  her  honey'd  accents  reach  the  heart: 
Help  them  to  learn,  without  the  bitter  smart 
Of  bad  experience,  vices  to  decline ; 
From  treachery,  falsehood,  knavery  may  they  start 
As  from  a  hidden  snake;  from  women,  wine — 
From   all  the  guilty  pangs  with  which   such  scenes 
combine. 

VII. 

How  soft  they  sleep !  what  innocent  repose 
Rests  on  those  eyes  from  older  sorrows  free ! 
Sweet  babes !     The  curtain  I  would  not  unclose. 
Which  wraps  the  future  from  your  minds  and  me : 
But,  heavenly  Father,  leaving  them  with  thee — 
Whether  or  high  or  low  may  be  their  lot, 
Or  early  death  or  life  await  them, — be 
Their  Guardian,  Saviour,  Guide ;  and  bless  the  spot 
Where  they  shall  live  or  die:  till  death,  forsake  them  not! 

VIII. 

Though  Persecution's  arches  o'er  them  spread. 
Or  sickness  undermine,  consuming  slow; 
Though  they  should  lead  the  life  their  Saviour  led, 
And  his  deep  poverty  be  doomed  to  know; 
Wherever  thou  shalt  order,  let  them  go ; 
I  give  them  up  to  thee — they  are  not  mine; 
And  I  could  call  the  swiftest  winds  to  blow 
To  bear  them  from  me  to  the  Pole  or  Line, 
In  distant  lands  to  plant  the  gospel's  bleeding  shrine. 


32  THE   GOSPEL. 

IX. 

When  as  a  scroll  these  heavens  shall  pass  away, 
When  the  cold  grave  shall  offer  up  its  trust; 
When  seas  shall  burn,  and  the  last,  dreadful  day 
Restores  the  spirit  to  its  scattered  dust ; 
Then,  thou  most  Merciful  as  well  as  Just, 
Let  not  my  eye,  when  elements  are  toss'd 
In  wild  confusion,  see  that  darkest,  worst 
Of  painful  sights  that  ever  parent  cross'd — 
Hear  my  sad,  earnest  prayer,  and  let  not  mine  be  lost ! 

Newbury,  (Mass.) 


THE  GOSPEL. 


BY  H.  P,  G. 


In  all  our  way  through  life,  the  Gospel  sheds 
Its  kind  and  healing  beams  o'er  all  our  woes; 
And  when  our  days  are  done,  it  lights  the  path 
That  leads  us  on  to  brighter,  happier  scenes: 
And  it  will  live  and  shine  when  all  beside 
Has  perish'd  in  the  wreck  of  earthly  things. 

O,  'tis  the  Gospel  only  that  can  bring 

Peace  to  the  heart  amid  its  sufferings — 

Can  strew  life's  pathway  with  the  bloom  of  heaven, 

And  kindle  up,  on  its  extremest  shore, 

A  watch-liglit  tliat  shall  safely  guide  our  bark 

Across  the  dark  and  troubled  wave  of  Death. 


^m 


33 


THE   BOND   OF   PEACE. 

BY  REV.  HERMAN  HOOKER. 

What  we  ought  to  do  is  often  best  learned  from 
what  we  are.  Nothing  indeed  is  required  of  us  which 
does  not  look  to  what  we  are,  as  well  as  to  what  we 
should  be.  This  our  nature  is  taken  into  union  with 
Deity,  as  if  to  commend  its  imperfect  services,  and  en- 
sure to  us  a  feeling  of  our  infirmity,  that  shall  remove 
its  shame,  while  it  leaves  its  weakness  for  our  good. 
We  are  creatures  of  soul  and  body — of  mind  and  mat- 
ter,— and  it  is  not  a  spiritual  life  merely  which  we  have 
to  live.  We  are  not  to  look  on  spiritual  things  merely, 
though  we  are  to  look  on  others  chiefly  as  glasses  in 
which  we  have  some  discerning  of  them.  We  are  not 
angels,  and  the  service  sought  of  us  is  not  an  angel's 
service,  but  a  man's ;  it  is  not  the  service  of  heaven, 
but  that  of  earth,  most  suitable,  we  must  think,  by  rea- 
son of  its  allowed  imperfection  and  intermission,  to 
creatures  who  know  in  part,  and  have  life  only  in  part. 
Much  of  our  dissatisfaction  here,  and  many  of  the  mis- 
takes we  make,  will,  when  duly  considered,  be  found 
attributable  to  our  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  duty 
required  of  us,  as  creatures  of  a  material  as  well  as  a 
spiritual  existence.  As  the  springs  of  earth  arise  out 
of  it,  and  lend  their  pure  waters  to  refresh  and  enrich 
it,  so  many  of  our  duties  spring  from  the  material  rela^ 
tions  of  life,  and  spend  their  chief  force  on  them,  look- 
ing indeed  to  eternity,  yet  so  as  streams  run  to  the 

E 


34  THEBONDOFPEACE. 

ocean,  not  so  much  to  make  a  part  of  it,  as  to  serve  and 
fertilize  the  country  by  the  way.  To  this  class  most 
of  our  relative  duties  seem  to  belong,  and  it  requires 
more  comprehensiveness  of  mind  to  appreciate  their 
importance,  than  is  readily,  or  perhaps  generally  sup- 
posed. The  character  of  others  is,  to  a  great  extent, 
the  soil,  of  which  ours  is  but  a  growth.  We  are  so 
united,  so  dependent,  that  we  may  not  live  apart,  but 
are  as  branches  of  the  same  stock,  blooming  or  decay- 
ing with  the  health  of  the  parts  to  which  we  are  at- 
tached. 

The  most  common  and  genial  nutriment  of  malevo- 
lent feelings,  is  found  in  their  manifestation  in  those 
with  whom  we  have  to  do,  and  they  chiefly  steel  us 
to  the  gentleness  of  virtue,  cool  our  sympathies,  and 
make  us  too  ill-natured  to  close  with  the  "  sweetness 
of  heaven."  If,  as  soon  as  we  rise  up  in  the  world, 
our  minds  were  struck  only  with  the  glare  and  grace 
of  heavenly  virtues ;  if  we  had  only  to  grow  up  in  fel- 
lowship with  beings  whose  entire  humour  and  deport- 
ment were  an  exact  exhibition  of  that  "  charity  which 
thinketh  no  evil,  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind,"  it  would 
seem  as  if  our  depravity  must  languish  for  want  of  ex- 
citement, and  we  be  found,  in  the  gaiety  of  youth  and 
in  the  thoughtfulness  of  manhood  and  age,  running  up 
all  these  rivulets  to  their  fountain,  and  going  back  by 
all  these  beams  to  that  brightness  and  fulness  of  them 
in  which  we  should  delight  to  be  lost  and  found.  We 
can  take  no  view  of  such  a  prospect  as  this,  which  does 
not  reflect  the  clear  light  of  heaven  upon  the  path  of 
our  duties  and  trials.  Accordingly,  we  are  not  sur- 
prised to  find  in  our  nature  a  special  provision  for  tlie 
fulfilment  of  these  ends.     We  have  reason,  in  order  to 


THEBONDOFPEACE.  35 

estimate  their  value ;  we  are  born  into  ties  which  may 
not  be  put  asunder ;  we  have  a  bosom  crowded  with 
sympathy,  and  are  made  to  go  leaning-,  as  with  arm  in 
arm  to  receive  and  impart  support.  We  are  a  brother- 
hood, yet  without  a  settled  habitation;  and,  like  birds  of 
passage,  if  we  loose  ourselves  from  one  another,  our 
freedom  will  become  a  weariness,  and  we  must  perish 
in  ungenial  solitude,  or  make  our  way  alone  and  unan- 
swered when  we  cry.  Having-  indeed  a  common  ori- 
gin and  like  susceptibilities,  it  would  be  strange  if  we 
should  not  readily  acknowledge  a  relationship  by  sym- 
pathy with  one  another,  and  by  the  experience  of  plea- 
sure and  pain,  learn  to  take  part  in  the  pleasure  and 
pain  of  others.  All  things,  in  short,  seem  conspiring 
to  train  us  "  to  weep  with  them  that  weep,  and  to  re- 
joice with  them  that  do  rejoice."  To  do  this,  however, 
as  goodness  requires,  is  to  have  the  art  of  extracting 
sweetness  from  every  dispensation;  to  have  a  happi- 
ness that  is  so  a  part  of  ourselves,  that  nothing  can 
take  it  from  us— a  diffused  being  that  inherits  all  things. 
It  is  to  run  without  weights  the  race  of  well-doing, 

"  And  like  a  God,  by  spiritual  art, 
Be  all  in  all,  and  all  in  every  part." 

A  gentle,  forgiving,  and  benevolent  temper,  if  it  be 
ours  as  a  nature,  ours  as  a  fountain  of  pure  water,  which, 
though  it  may  be  roiled,  still  clears  itself  when  let 
alone — it  would  make  us  quite  superior  to  the  ills  and 
disturbances  of  our  mortal  state ;  for  though  it  should 
not  render  us  insensible  to  pain,  it  will  give  us  a  com- 
mand of  sufficient  relief  It  will  sweeten  every  dis- 
pensation which  nature  resents.  It  will  preserve  us 
from  giving  any  just  offence,  rid  us  of  all  evil  conceits. 


36  THE    BOND    OF    PEACE. 

and  so  keep  us  at  peace  without  and  within.  Charity, 
in  some  of  her  forms  of  manifestation,  will  melt  the 
hardest  heart,  and  charm  the  fiercest  spirit ;  it  will 
bind  as  with  a  spell  the  arm  of  violence  and  the 
tongue  of  detraction,  bring  heart  to  heart,  and  change 
bitterness  and  impatience  into  meekness  and  repose. 
The  exhibition  of  this  temper,  when  we  do  but  express 
our  delight  in  the  diffusion  of  goodness,  will  not  only 
tend  to  dissolve  enmities  and  reconcile  differences,  but 
is  both  the  breath  and  aliment  of  all  the  durable  friend- 
ships and  regards  of  life.  It  is  "  the  bond  of  peace," 
the  agreement  of  spirits  which  itself  has  united  in  a 
vital  oneness — a  semblance  of  light  and  purity.  It 
is  the  fire  that  kindles  and  assimilates  to  itself  all  it 
touches,  spreading  itself  among  materials  most  unlike 
itself,  yet  leaving  with  them  all  something  of  its  heat 
and  brightness.  No  one  can  resist  its  sway,  in  whom 
humanity  is  not  quite  extinct.  A  charity,  which 
"  vaunteth  not  itself,  and  thinketh  no  evil,"  will  take 
us  into  bonds  such  as  angels  feel.  We  need  but  to 
make  it  ours,  that  we  may  own  and  welcome  its  con- 
trol as  our  chief,  our  sufficient  good.  It  would  make 
this  world  but  a  starry  way  to  heaven, — light  and 
joyous  enough  for  our  best  endurance  here.  Its  mild 
and  serene  countenance,  its  timely  and  gentle  words, 
its  duteous  and  obliging  gesture,  its  open  and  fair  deal- 
ing, its  quickness  and  delight  to  do  any  good  service, 
its  patient  endurance  of  hardships,  and  its  happy  dispo- 
sal of  crosses — these  are  the  things  which  we  must 
admire,  which  must  daunt  our  evil  growth,  and  win  us 
to  goodness,  if  worthy  to  be  won. 

Would  we  then  rise  above  the  common  lot  of  huma- 
nity,  and  have,  in  a  sort,  an  empire  of  happiness  which 


THEBONDOFPEACE.  37 

nothing-  can  successfully  invade,  we  must  have  this 
temper,  whose  art  it  is  to  gather  from  all  events  the 
best  good  and  the  least  evil  they  may  bring.  It  alone 
can  complete  us  for  life,  carry  us  gently  to  its  close, 
and  make  the  grave  to  us 

"  A  place  of  thought,  where  we  in  waiting  lie." 

It  qualifies  us  to  take  all  events  without  harm.  Pros- 
perity will  not  elate  and  harden  us,  when  the  heart,  in 
mindfulness  of  the  needs  and  sufferings  of  others,  dis- 
poses us  to  improve  it  as  the  instrument  of  greater 
good  to  them ;  nor  will  adversity  disaftect  or  greatly 
depress  us,  when  we  are  not  obliged  to  contemplate  it 
as  the  fruit  of  our  ill-doing,  and  have  benevolence 
enough  to  find  delight  in  the  kind  offices  and  good  suc- 
cesses of  others.  To  him  whose  heart  is  cold  and  selfish, 
and  who  follows  only  that  which  makes  for  his  own 
interest  without  delight  or  concern  in  the  welfare  of 
others,  prosperity  is  fruitless  and  adversity  is  comfort- 
less. His  adversity  is  comfortless,  because  his  selfish- 
ness will  not  only  prevent  his  receiving  refreshment 
from  the  successes  of  others,  but,  under  the  forms  of 
pride  and  envy,  will  convert  those  very  successes  into 
the  occasions  of  fresh  impatience  and  pain.  His  pros- 
perity is  fruitless  and  void  of  substantial  good  to  him- 
self, because  it  becomes  the  aliment  of  his  most  uneasy 
and  hurtful  passions  and  appetites ;  and  it  is  fruitless 
and  void  of  good  to  others,  because  it  rather  litis  him 
above  than  softens  him  down  to  a  participation  of  their 
condition ;  and  we  must  poorly  enjoy  any  of  the  advan- 
tages or  faculties  of  nature  or  fortune  if  we  but  share 
them  alone.     To  tTo  this,  is  to  use  ourselves  and  the 


38  THEBONDOFPEACE. 

world  by  abuse.  And  the  way  of  the  transgressor,  in 
these  respects,  is  a  hard  way.  It  is  a  way  which  in- 
dulges and  nourishes  the  lower  and  baser  principles  of 
his  nature,  and  harms  and  shocks  the  more  elevated 
and  divine,  in  the  culture  of  which  true  happiness  and 
dignity  consist.  Our  happiness  must  be  of  an  order 
that  accords  with  the  proper  aims  and  destination  of 
our  being,  or  it  will  droop  and  languish  even  in  the  day 
of  prosperity;  as  the  plant  that  has  no  earth,  when  once 
the  sun  shines  on  it,  which,  but  for  this  defect,  would 
raise  it  to  life  and  glory.  We  may  bury  and  lose  our- 
selves in  a  profusion  of  good  things,  which  we  will  not 
spread  out  and  improve  for  the  general  good,  but  we 
shall  not  find  our  happiness  in  that  seclusion.  The 
things  we  dote  upon  will  not  be  to  us  the  realities  our 
fondness  would  make  them,  but  only  the  sliows  and 
shadows  of  that  which  we  find  not  But  our  abund- 
ance, when  used  as  the  means  of  doing  good,  will  secure 
for  us  thanks  and  commendation  from  without,  and 
work  comfort  and  satisfaction  within,  as  the  occasions 
of  exercising  our  best  and  purest  feelings.  The  goods 
that  do  not  make  us  thankful  and  benevolent,  bless  us 
not.  The  bounties  which  we  share  not  with  others, 
are  to  us  as  mines  of  which  we  have  not  tried  the  value. 
He  who  has  all  treasures  in  himself,  must  needs  spread 
them  out  in  the  work  of  his  hands ;  he  must,  in  a  sort, 
have  his  "delight  with  the  sons  of  men;"  and  we  may 
not  be  happy  save  in  the  imitation  of  him.  It  is  not 
happiness  that  which  we  feel,  without  the  sympathy 
and  participation  of  other  beings.  We  are  all  fashioned 
after  the  same  original  idea,  and  agree  together  in  the 
same  essential  ingredients  of  our  constitution,  differing 
most  in  outward  appearance,  and  in  the  accidental  ap- 


THEBONDOFPEACE.  39 

pendag-es  of  life,  yet  uniting-  as  one  and  indivisible  in  the 
only  true  sources  of  excellence  and  enjoyment,  and  in 
valuation  and  destiny  as  creatures ;  so  that,  as  by  a  law 
of  our  nature,  when  we  have  fellowship  with  others, 
we  are  in  full  communion  with  ourselves;  when  we 
are  kind  to  them,  and  yield  them  obedience,  we  best 
assert  our  dig'nity  and  respect  ourselves ;  when  we  feed 
and  comfort  them  in  distress,  we  truly  supply  our  own 
wants,  and  bind  up  our  own  wounds,  for  we  "  are  all 
members  one  of  another."  We  cannot  transgress  these 
laws  of  blood,  break  away  from  these  relations  of  the 
"  inner  man,"  without  doing  violence  to  ourselves,  ob- 
structing the  sources  of  our  highest  enjoyment,  and 
opening  those  of  perpetual  strife  and  degeneracy  in  the 
household  of  our  affections. 

Philadelphia. 


40 


THE    FRIEND    ABOVE. 

BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.  '^ 

f 

"  Lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven." 

k 

The  rust  hath  found  thy  gold, 

Though  lock'd  within  thy  thought; 

And  in  thy  richest  vestment's  fold, 
The  moth  its  vengeance  wrought 

The  robber  to  thy  hoard 

Hath  cut  his  secret  way — 
And  what  the  toil  of  ages  stor'd, 

A  moment  swept  away. 

If  thou  a  wealth  wouldst  gain, 

Refin'd  from  earthly  dross. 
And  lay  thy  treasure  up  in  heaven, 

Thou  shouldst  not  suffer  loss. 

There  was  a  tender  love. 

Which  all  resistless  stole. 
Until  the  Giver  of  thy  joys 

Was  banish'd  from  thy  soul. 

A  blast  thine  idol  shook, 

Cold  in  the  grave  it  slept, — 
If  thou  hadst  sought  a  friend  above, 

Thou  hadst  not  thus  have  wept. 
Hartford,  (Con.) 


41 


THE  DEATH  OF  SAPPHIRA. 

BY  MISS  H.  i\  GOULL. 

Sapphira  !  Sapphira,  awake ! 

Alas !  she  is  gone  in  the  sleep 
That  but  the  archangel  can  break; 

For  life  hath  no  slumber  so  deep, 

'Tis  Death !  his  pale  ashes  are  cast 

On  those  withered  lips,  where  but  now 

An  insult  to  Heaven  was  pass'd ; 

His  dumbness  hath  followed  the  vow ! 

An  arrow  from  God,  swift  and  sure, 
Hath  blasted  the  pride  of  the  clay ; 

The  spirit,  in  boldness  secure, 
In  guilt  hath  been  stricken  away. 

Oh,  child  of  delusion!  to  stand 

The  chosen  of  Jesus  among. 
To  cover  the  fraud  of  thy  hand 

By  falsehood  to  him  on  thy  tongue ! 

How  vain  the  deceit  of  the  heart, 
To  shroud  in  a  mantle  so  frail ! 

Its  perfidy,  thus,  by  its  art 

To  think  from  Omniscience  to  veil ! 

Lost  woman !  but  three  hours  before, 
The  form  of  thy  partner  in  sin 
F 


42  THE  DEATH   OF  SAPPHIRA. 

Was  borne,  wan  and  cold,  from  the  door 
Where  thou  didst  so  rashly  come  in. 

And  they  who  had  carried  him  out, 
The  clods  o'er  his  bosom  to  lay, 

Were  waiting  the  threshold  about, 
To  bear  thy  sad  ruin  away. 

Sapphira,  could  Mercy  restore 

Or  Pity  thy  spirit  recall 
To  lig-ht  up  its  dwelling  once  more, 

It  should  not  thus  hopelessly  fall. 

But  Mercy  besought  thee  in  vain 
From  death's  awful  brink  to  recede ; 

To  shun  the  despair  and  the  pain 
Where  she  is  forbidden  to  plead. 

And  Pity's  warm  tear-drops  must  roll 
The  more,  that  she  cannot  relume 

The  walls  whence  the  self-wounded  soul 
Hath  fled  to  a  suicide's  doom. 

How  potent,  how  maddening  the  love, 
O  Gold,  of  a  mortal  must  be, 

To  challenge  an  arm  from  above — 
To  stake  earth  and  heaven  for  thee ! 

For  Justice  to  Judgment  will  call ; 

And  who  shall  their  coming  abide, 
When  wrath  the  most  fearful  of  all. 
The  wrath  of  the  Lamb,  is  defied  1 
Newburyport,  (Mass.) 


43 


TRUE   HEROISM. 


BY  REV.  JOHN  TODD. 


"  You  have  been  good  to  come  home  so  early  to-day, 
and  I  am  very  glad.  I  have  just  put  Edward  in  the 
cradle,  have  got  my  little  tea-table  ready,  and  had  come 
out  into  the  piazza,  that  I  might  look  up  the  mountain- 
road,  to  see  if  you  were  coming ;  but  I  looked  too  far, 
and  did  not  think  you  were  so  near." 

"  Yes,  I  found  my  little  patient  much  better.  I  think 
she  will  now  live ;  and  I  felt  so  much  relieved,  that  I 
hastened  home  to  enjoy  a  sun-set  with  you,  and  to  see 
you  wonder  at  the  dark  shadow  of  the  western  moun- 
tain, as  it  creeps  up  that  high  mountain  in  the  east. 
And  what  think  you  now,  Phebe, — shall  we  become 
happy  in  our  new  home  here, — away  from  friends  and 
the  world  to  be  sure,  but  certainly  one  of  the  most 
lovely  spots  on  earth  1  What  think  you,  Phebe,  shall 
we  not  become  very  happy  here  ]" 

"  We  are  very  happy  already,  William ;  and  if  I 
sometimes  feel  lonely  when  you  are  away,  especially 
as  it  was  last  evening,  when  I  could  hear  nothing  but 
the  roar  of  our  river,  or  the  howl  of  a  wolf,  while  I  was 
listening  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  Charley  with  his  mas- 
ter on  his  back ;  and  if  I  sometimes  think  of  all  our 
circle  of  friends  whom  we  have  left  behind  us ;  yet  I 
am  happy,  and  this  is  a  delightful  home ;  our  prospects 
are   good,   and  our  hopes  bright.     The   mail   comes 


44  TRUE   HEROISM. 

within  eight  miles  of  us,  once  every  fortnight;  and  I 
shall  never  feel  otherwise  than  happy,  while  our  cup  is 
so  full  of  mercies.  But  I  must  get  our  tea ;  and  I  hear 
Eddy  moving." 

Such  was  a  conversation  between  a  young  physician 
and  his  beautiful  young  wife,  at  the  close  of  a  sweet 
summer's  day.  They  were  standing  in  the  piazza  of  a 
small,  new  house,  which  his  industry  and  enterprise 
had  just  reared.  It  stood  in  a  deep  but  most  lovely 
valley,  between  two  lofty  prominences  of  the  Green 
Mountains,  in  Vermont.  In  front  of  their  house  and 
eastward,  ran  the  road,  which  followed  the  valley 
through  the  state;  and  a  little  beyond,  the  beautiful 
little  Battenkill  river  ran  and  tumbled  among  the 
smooth  rocks,  which  frequently  turned  aside  its  current, 
here  causing  an  abrupt  corner,  and  there  a  graceful 
curve.  Behind  these  rocks  the  waters  curled  around 
in  dark  eddies,  which  were  here  and  there  again  broken 
by  the  bright,  golden  trout,  as  he  leaped  up,  and,  at  a 
single  snap,  caught  the  poor  fly  or  beetle  as  he  incau- 
iiously  fanned  and  cooled  his  wings,  after  the  toils  of 
the  day,  too  near  the  water.  A  little  farther  east,  rose 
the  lofty  mountain,  covered  with  forest  trees,  thick  and 
rich,  now  growing  dark  and  mysterious  by  the  shadows 
of  the  western  mountain,  as  he  heaved  up  his  huge 
body  between  it  and  the  setting  sun. 

You  need  to  be  there  to  understand  the  witchery  of 
such  a  sun-set.  The  forest  trees  just  move  in  the  even- 
ing breeze,  as  if  beginning  to  grow  drowsy,  and  to  nod. 
The  top  of  the  western  mountain  is  gold  and  purple ; 
while  the  rays  of  tlie  setting  sun  show  bright  green 
forests,  as  tliey  go  up  higher  and  higher  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  valley ;  while  here  and  there  a  white 


TRUE   HEROISM. 


45 


marble  slab,  dressed  and  polished  only  by  the  hand  of 
nature,  gleams  from  the  side  of  the  mountain,  as  if  too 
modest  to  do  more  than  just  peep  out  through  the  trees, 
and  too  vain  of  its  beauty  to  keep  itself  entirely  out  of 
s/ght.  The  murmur  of  the  river  seems  to  swell  almost 
into  a  roar,  as  the  evening  deepens.  The  mountain- 
birds,  among  whom  are  heard  the  sweet, — the  indescri- 
bably sweet,  melancholy  notes  of  the  wood-robin,  have 
all  ceased  their  songs,  with  the  exception  of  a  solitary 
whip-poor-will,  who  has  ventured  down  into  the  garden, 
and  squatting  on  the  camomile-bed,  is  now  uttering, 
in  low  tones,  a  thick  clucking,  as  if  afflicted  with  the 
asthma,  while  his  public  notes  are  loud,  clear,  shrill, 
and  echoed  from  mountain  to  mountain,  as  if  twenty 
fellows  were  trying  to  vie  with  him,  while  every  at- 
tempt seems  fainter  and  more  distant. 

This  was  the  home  of  the  young  physician  and  his 
wife,  and  their  first-born.  They  had  left  an  older  state, 
where  they  had  moved  in  the  first  circles  of  society, 
and  had  come  hither  full  of  hope  and  full  of  happiness. 
The  sorrows  which  had  hitherto  met  them,  were  no- 
thing more  than  a  feeling  of  loneliness  on  her  part,  as 
she  was  mostly  left  alone  with  her  little  boy,  and  of 
anxiety  on  his  part,  as  he  now  and  then  stood  over  a 
patient  whom  disease  and  death  were  pursuing  even 
there.  They  were  young,  their  prospects  fair,  were  in 
good  health,  buoyant  in  spirits,  his  reputation  was  in- 
creasing as  well  as  his  practice,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
angel  of  mercy  would  never  cease  to  watch  around 
their  dwelling ;  and  that  the  wings  of  the  Almighty, 
like  the  shadows  of  the  mountain,  would  always  be 
spread  over  them. 


46  TRUE   HEROISM. 

Years  passed  away.  The  scenes  of  nature  were  un- 
altered. The  Green  Mountains  stood  there  still.  The 
beautiful  river,  untired,  still  rolled  its  tribute  of  pure 
waters  onward,  murmuring  and  feverish,  as  if  unable 
and  unwilling  to  find  a  place  for  a  pause.  The  elm 
had  grown  up,  and  hung  gracefully  over  that  home. 
The  spring  still  gushed  out  its  waters  at  the  head  of 
the  garden.  But  the  house  was  silent.  The  piazza 
had  fallen  to  decay,  the  windows  were  closed,  the  gate 
was  nailed  up,  the  garden  full  of  weeds  and  briars,  and 
the  foot-path  to  the  spring  grown  over  with  grass. 
The  whip-poor-will  had  forsaken  his  stand,  and  the  owl 
hooted  in  the  barn.  The  physician  and  his  wife  had 
become  the  parents  of  several  children,  still  young. 
And  where  were  they  now  ]  A  small  white  stone,  un- 
der an  aged  oak  in  a  distant  grave-yard,  told  where  he 
sleeps  till  the  morning  of  the  resurrection.  That  wife, 
so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  hope,  was  seen  day 
after  day,  sitting  on  a  rock  by  the  sea-side,  looking  off 
upon  the  waters  as  they  rolled  by.  No  one  knew,  save 
He  who  tuned  the  harp  of  a  thousand  strings,  what  was 
passing  within,  except  as  the  countenance,  expressive 
of  deep  sorrow,  indicated  that  an  intense  fire  was  feed- 
ing at  her  heart.  She  was  a  maniac,  no  more  to  enjoy 
her  reason  while  her  spirit  inhabited  its  disordered 
tabernacle  of  clay. 

A  few  words  tell  the  story.  For  years  this  family 
were  happy,  frugal,  prosperous  and  ambitious.  He 
was  high  in  his  profession,  and  was  fast  iHing  in  politi- 
cal life,  when,  by  a  mysterious  providence,  he  was 
crushed  by  a  single  blow.  For  two  years  he  did  not 
rise  from  his  bed ;  and,  when  he  did  rise,  he  came  out 
a  poor  cripple,  full  of  pain  and  sorrow.     The  grave 


TRUE   HEROISM.  47 

only  relieved  him.  The  blow  was  too  sudden  and  too 
severe  for  his  wife.  Sick  and  feverish  at  the  fall  of 
the  stroke,  it  destroyed  her  reason  for  ever.  Their 
hopes  were  blasted,  and  her  heart  crushed, — he  carried 
to  an  early  grave,  and  she  a  homeless  widow,  not  able 
to  take  care  of  her  children,  and  they  too  young  to 
take  care  of  her. 

But  I  am  going  too  fast.  By  a  long  and  most  expen- 
sive sickness,  and  with  no  mother  who  could  take  care 
of  the  family,  all  the  little  property  which  the  young 
physician  had  saved,  was  gone.  Nothing  remained  at 
his  death.  Just  before  he  died,  he  gathered  his  little 
children  around  his  bed-side,  and  gave  to  each  his  coun- 
sels, his  admonitions,  and  his  blessing.  Upon  the 
youngest,  a  boy  of  about  five  years  of  age,  a  kind  of 
Benjamin,  he  laid  his  thin  hand  with  peculiar  emphasis, 
and  from  a  full  heart  blessed  him  again  and  again. 

"  And  you,  Joseph,  my  poor  little  boy,  will  shortly 
have  no  father.  In  a  few  days  you  will  see  them  bury 
your  father  up  in  the  ground.  Oh !  had  you  a  mother 
who  could  take  care  of  you — a  home  that  could  shelter 
you — a  heart  that  could  feel  for  you  as  I  feel, — I  should 
leave  you  in  peace.  But  why  should  I  not  now  ]  That 
God,  who  feeds  the  young  birds  when  they  cry;  who 
shelters  the  young  lamb  from  the  storm ;  and  who 
wraps  the  poor  worm  up  in  the  leaf, — will  surely  take 
care  of  you,  my  own  dear  boy.  Never  forget,  after  I 
am  gone,  that  you  have  a  better  Father  in  heaven. 
Ask  Him  to  take  care  of  you ;  pray  to  Him  to  be  your 
Father,  and  make  you  good  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake. 
Give  your  father  one  more  kiss,  Joseph ;  and  now,  fare- 
well !" 

In  a  few  hours  the  father  was  gone.    The  poor  widow 


48  TRUE   HEROISM. 

sat  aside  from  the  rest  of  the  mourners,  for  her  sorrow 
had  no  commimion  with  theirs.  She  uttered  a  kind  of 
deep  moan,  talking  continually  about  the  steep  moun- 
tain side,  and  apprehending  that  "  the  Doctor  would  be 
thrown  from  his  carriage  before  reaching  home."  And 
then  she  would  go  to  the  window  and  look  out  as  she 
used  to  do,  and  complain  that  the  "mountain-road"  was 
so  dark  that  she  could  not  see  it. 

The  next  day  the  children  were  in  the  room  by 
themselves,  planning  with  a  neighbour  about  the  fune- 
ral. They  could  all  appear  decent,  except  little  Joseph. 
He  had  no  shoes.  A  poor  widow,  half  a  mile  off,  offered 
to  lend  him  her  Robert's  for  that  occasion, — glad  to  do 
even  a  little  for  the  family  of  one  who  had  often  been 
with  her  in  the  hour  of  trouble  and  distress.  They 
gladly  availed  themselves  of  the  offer,  and  the  little 
fellow  followed  his  father  to  the  grave  in  a  pair  of  bor- 
rowed shoes. 

A  few  days  after  the  funeral,  these  children  were 
sitting  together,  planning  how  they  might  procure  a 
pair  of  shoes  for  little  Joseph.  At  length  it  occurred 
to  them  that  their  father  might  have  a  demand  against 
some  honest  shoemaker  to  an  amount  that  would  pro- 
cure the  shoes.  At  once  they  fell  to  conning  over  his 
day-book,  and  to  their  great  joy  soon  found  an  honest 
demand  sufficiently  large.  The  shoes  were  procured, 
and  the  child  borrowed  no  more.  I  mention  these  little 
incidents,  because  they  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
mind  of  the  little  boy,  and  because  "little  Joseph"  is  to 
be  the  subject  of  my  brief  tale. 

There  is  no  place  for  the  creation  and  development 
of  character  like  New  England.  It  is  a  wonderful  spot 
upon  this  footstool  of  the  Eternal.  In  many  parts  of  it,  the 


TRUE   HEROISM.  49 

winter  is  long  and  cold,  the  snows  deep,  and  the  months 
are  dreary.  In  many  parts  the  fields  are  covered  with 
rocks,  in  which  the  mica  shines  most  plentifully.  In 
other  parts,  the  pine  grows  on  large  tracts  of  sandy 
soil ;  and  in  others  still,  the  blackbird  swarms  in  swamps 
which  remain  from  age  to  age,  unsubdued  and  undis- 
turbed. It  is  a  hard  soil.  The  valleys,  mostly  running 
nortli  and  south,  are  beautiful ;  but  the  ragged  hills  on 
each  side  are  frequently  too  steep  even  for  the  sheep 
to  climb.  But  with  all  this,  men  are  raised  there.  The 
traveller  from  a  more  sunny  clime,  and  a  more  gener- 
ous soil,  is  astonished  to  see  the  number  and  beauty  of 
snow-white  villages,  each  one  embosomed  in  trees  and 
shrubbery,  sitting  on  some  side  hill,  and  looking  off 
like  some  young  queen.  He  is  astonished  to  find  that 
hardly  a  stream  can  leap  down  wild  from  the  mountain, 
without  at  once  being  seized  and  tamed,  and  made  to 
turn  the  wheels  of  some  machinery ;  and  scarcely  can 
one  steal  away  so  noiselessly  through  tlie  forest,  as  not 
to  be  pressed  into  the  service  of  man.  He  goes  into  a 
small,  red  building  by  the  wayside,  with  a  pond  hardly 
sufficient  for  a  duck  to  bathe  in,  and  is  surprised  to  find 
things  manufactured  here  which  have  gone  through  the 
land,  and  which,  for  abundance  and  excellence,  he  na- 
turally supposed  must  have  been  manufactured  in  a  build- 
ing at  least  six  stories  high,  with  an  apparatus  corre- 
sponding with  the  building.  He  will  find  shops,  which 
might  be  taken  for  little  tool  shops,  in  which  articles 
are  made,  of  a  quality  and  beauty  so  superior,  that  they 
are  not  unfrequently  imitated  across  the  great  waters, 
and  stamped  with  the  name  of  the  Yankee  patentee. 
He  will  find  a  school-house  every  two  miles,  in  good 
order,  filled  with  a  hardy  race  of  children,  whose  bright 

G 


50  TRUE   HEROISM. 

faces  indicate  that  mind  within  has  already  hecome 
awakened.  He  is  very  likely,  too,  to  find  the  little 
brook  near  by  the  school-house,  with  a  dam  across  it,  and 
a  wheel  kept  in  perpetual  motion,  as  if  a  young  factory 
was  about  to  grow  up  under  the  very  eaves  of  the 
school-house.  The  climate,  and  the  frugality  and  in- 
dustry of  the  population,  render  them  a  p'^culiar  race. 
Few  young  men  have  any  thing  to  depend  upon,  ex- 
cept a  good  education  and  habits  of  industry.  Few 
fail  of  obtaining  an  honourable  competency,  though 
there  is  usually  a  hard  struggle  at  the  point  midway 
between  poverty  and  thrift.  This  point  once  passed, 
they  have  no  difficulty.  Accustomed,  often  from  very 
childhood,  to  rely  upon  their  own  energies  and  resources, 
there  are  few  difficulties  which  they  cannot  overcome, 
few  trials  which  they  cannot  endure,  and  few  circum- 
stances of  depression  above  which  they  cannot  rise. 
Minds  which  have  given  destiny  to  the  nation,  and  which 
have  been  the  astonishment  of  the  world,  have  been 
reared  up  here.  Many  a  great  man,  the  pride  of  his 
country,  has  gone  from  the  halls  of  legislation  to  the 
home  of  his  childhood,  and,  when  h«  reached  it,  alight- 
ed at  the  small,  humble  dwelling  oT"the  virtuous  farmer 
or  mechanic.  The  old  man  and  the  son  meet,  the  one 
not  feeling  that  his  son  has  done  better  than  he  ought, 
or  than  might  be  expected ;  and  the  other  feeling  that 
his  character  is  owing  entirely,  under  God,  to  impres- 
sions which  these  aged  parents  made  upon  him  when  a 
child,  and  to  the  habits  which  they  caused  to  become 
his  own.  Physical  constitutions  are  here  formed  which 
can  endure  any  climate ;  ingenuity  is  created  which 
can  extricate  from  almost  any  difficulties ;  a  boldness 
which  can  endure  any  dangers ;   and  an  iron  energy 


TRUE   HEROISM.  51 

which  can  carry  the  adventurer  through  any  under- 
taking ;  and  a  strong,  cautious,  clear  judgment,  which 
frees  from  rashness  as  well  as  imbecility.  There  is  no 
place  for  the  creation  of  character  like  New  England. 

Things,  which  to  the  human  eye  may  seem  small 
and  unworthy  of  notice,  may  afterwards  be  found  to  be 
necessary  links  in  a  chain  of  great  length  and  power. 
This  is  often  evident  in  the  natural  world,  but  perhaps 
it  is  still  more  frequently  made  evident  in  the  moral 
world.  The  father  of  this  little  boy  had  been  dead 
about  five  years.  The  family,  of  course,  had  all  been 
scattered.  Joseph  lived  in  a  retired  spot  with  a  distant 
relative,  an  honest,  good-hearted  sailor,  half  farmer  and 
half  sailor,  who  treated  him  in  general  with  kindness, 
but  who,  from  defects  in  his  own  education,  and  from 
a  want  of  self  government,  was  no  desirable  example 
for  such  a  child  to  copy.  The  little  incident  which  I 
am  about  to  mention,  was  one  among  many  which  had 
an  eflfect,  probably  a  very  decided  effect,  in  forming  the 
character  of  one  who  was  left  to  be  educated  by  the 
impressions  of  circumstances.  His  friend  had  a  small 
farm,  on  which  theTioy  worked  with  such  men  as  from 
time  to  time  happened  to  be  employed.  In  a  remote 
field  stood  a  large  tulip-tree,  a  tree  apparently  of  a 
century's  growth,  and  one  of  the  most  gigantic  of  that 
splendid  species  of  tree.  It  looked  like  the  father  of 
the  surrounding  forest.  A  single  tree  of  huge  dimen- 
sions, standing  all  alone,  is  a  sublime  object.  On  the 
top  of  this  tree,  for  years  an  old  eagle,  commonly  called 
the  "  Fishing  Eagle,"  had  built  her  nest  every  year, 
and  unmolested  raised  her  young.  What  is  remark- 
able, if  it  be  remarkable,  this  tree  stood  full  ten  miles 


52  TRUE  HEROISM. 

from  the  sea-shore.  It  had  long  been  known  as  the 
"  Old  Eagle  tree."  On  a  warm,  sunny  day,  the  work- 
men were  hoeing  corn  in  an  adjoining  field.  At  a 
certain  hour  of  the  day,  the  old  eagle  was  known  to  set 
off  for  the  sea-side,  to  gather  food  for  her  young.  As 
she  this  day  returned  with  a  large  fish  in  her  claws, 
the  workmen  surrounded  the  tree,  and  by  yelling,  and 
hooting,  and  throwing  stones,  so  scared  the  poor  bird 
that  she  dropped  her  fish,  and  they  carried  it  oft'  in  tri- 
umph. The  men  soon  dispersed ;  but  Joseph  sat  down 
under  a  bush  near  by  to  watch,  and  to  bestow  unavail- 
ing pity.  The  bird  soon  returned  to  her  nest  without 
food.  The  eaglets  at  once  set  up  a  cry  for  food  so 
shrill,  so  clear,  and  so  clamorous,  that  the  boy  was 
greatly  moved.  The  parent  bird  seemed  to  try  to 
soothe  them ;  but  their  appetites  were  too  keen,  and  it 
was  all  in  vain.  She  then  perched  herself  on  a  limb 
near  them,  and  looked  down  into  the  nest  with  a  look 
that  seemed  to  say,  "I  know  not  what  to  do  next." 
Her  indecision  was  but  momentary ;  again  she  poised 
herself,  uttered  one  or  two  sharp  notes,  as  if  telling 
them  to  "lie  still,"  balanced  her  body,  spread  her 
wings,  and  was  away  again  for  the  sea !  Joseph  now 
determined  to  see  the  result.  His  eye  followed  her  till 
she  grew  small,  smaller,  a  mere  speck  in  the  sky,  and 
then  disappeared.  What  boy  has  not  thus  watched  the 
flight  of  the  bird  of  his  country  in  this  way]  She  was 
gone  nearly  two  hours,  about  double  her  usual  time  for 
a  voyage,  when  she  again  returned  on  a  slow,  weary 
wing,  flying  uncommonly  low  in  order  to  have  a  heavier 
atmosphere  to  sustain  her,  with  another  fish  in  her 
talons.  On  nearing  the  field,  she  made  a  circuit  around 
it,  to  see  if  her  enemies  were  again  there.     Finding 


TRUE   HEROISM.  53 

the  coast  clear,  she  once  more  reached  her  tree,  droop- 
ing, faint  and  weary,  and  evidently  nearly  exhausted. 
Again  the  eaglets  set  up  their  cry,  which  was  soon 
hushed  by  the  distribution  of  a  dinner  such  as, — save 
the  cooking, — a  king  might  admire.  "  Glorious  bird !" 
cried  the  boy  in  ecstasy  and  aloud ;  "  what  a  spirit ! 
Other  birds  can  fly  swifter — others  can  sing  more 
sweetly — others  scream  more  loudly ;  but  what  other 
bird,  when  persecuted  and  robbed — when  weary — when 
discouraged — when  so  far  from  the  sea, — would  do  it ! 
Glorious  bird  !  I  will  learn  a  lesson  from  thee  to-day. 
I  will  never  forget,  hereafter,  that  when  the  spirit  is 
determined,  it  can  do  almost  any  thing.  Others  would 
have  drooped  and  hung  the  head,  and  mourned  over  the 
cruelty  of  man,  and  sighed  over  the  wants  of  the  nest- 
lings; but  thou,  by  at  once  recovering  the  loss,  hast 
forgotten  all.  I  will  learn  of  thee,  noble  bird  I  I  will 
remember  this.  I  will  set  my  mark  high.  I  will  try 
to  do  something,  and  to  be  something  in  the  world; 
and  I  will  never  yield  to  discouragements.'''' 

Such  in  substance — for  I  do  not,  of  course,  pretend 
that  I  have  given  the  very  words  in  wiiich  his  thoughts 
were  clothed — were  the  reflections  of  Joseph.  The 
next  day,  from  the  fulness  of  the  heart,  he  inadvert- 
ently dropped  the  hint  of  his  determination  to  go  to 
College  some  day,  and  received  a  hearty  share  of  ridi- 
cule for  the  idea.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  his 
mind  received  an  impression,  and  his  decision  of  cha- 
racter an  increase  from  this  circumstance,  which  was 
felt  in  all  subsequent  years. 

Three  years  after  this,  a  boy  was  seen  tripping  mer- 
rily along  towards  Philadelphia,  with  a  stiff"  hickory 
cane  in  one  hand,  and  a  small  bundle  in  the  other.    He 


54  TRUE   HEROISM. 

was  alone,  and  on  foot.  This  was  the  eightli  day  of  his 
solitary  travels,  which  he  had  continued  to  pursue  with 
the  sum  of  fifty  cents  a  day.  In  his  checkered  handker- 
chief were  all  his  worldly  goods,  consisting-  of  a  Testa- 
ment, a  few  shirts  with  a  black  ribbon  in  the  collar  of 
each,  and  a  small  number  of  unimportant  articles  of 
dress.  He  was  overtaken  by  a  man  on  horseback,  with 
a  knowing,  and  somewhat  dignified  look.  The  boy  at 
once  recognised  him  as  an  old  schoolmaster,  to  whom 
he  had  been  for  instruction,  several  winters  before,  in  a 
free  school.  At  first  he  seemed  unwilling  to  use  his 
memory,  when  hailed  by  the  boy ;  but  his  good  nature 
soon  obtained  the  ascendency. 

"What,  Joseph,  is  it  you,  down  here  so  far  from 
home]" 

"  It  is  indeed,  sir ;  and  I  am  right  glad  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Beckwith." 

"But  where  are  you  going,  my  boy?" 

"  To  Philadelphia,  sir." 

"  What,  all  alone  ?  How  old  are  you  1  What  are  you 
going  there  for,  eh  ?" 

"Thirteen  years  old  next  month,  sir.  My  cousin, 
Mr.  Eaton,  told  me  last  spring,  that  if  I  could  get  to 
him  he  would  help  me  to  a  better  education  than  I  could 
get  in  Connecticut.  So  I  have  been  contriving  all 
summer  how  to  get  money  enough  to  get  there.  I  am 
now  on  the  way,  and  hope  to  get  there  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, if  I  can  get  over  that  great  river.  I  have  got  out 
of  my  way  twice,  already." 

"  Out  of  your  way  twice  !  Why  don't  you  inquire, 
as  I  used  to  teach  you  1  But  I  suppose  you  forget  what 
I  used  to  teach  you,  now  that  you  are  going  to  get  a 
better  education !" 


TRUE   HEROISM.  55 

"  I  did  inquire,  sir ;  but  they  called  me  a  run-away 
boy,  and  so  I  stopped  asking,  for  I  did  not  like  that; 
and  I  found  my  way  again  by  the  guide-posts.  /  never 
feel  discouraged.''''  * 

"Ay,  that's  right,  that's  right;  just  as  I  used  to 
teach  you.  I  always  said  you  would  make  something 
or  nothing.  But  I  hope  you  have  got  money  enough 
to  get  there  V 

"  I  have,  sir,  and  shall  have  a  little  left." 

"Ah!  how  much  will  you  have  J" 

"  Why,  if  I  can  find  another  kind  lady  to-night,  I 
shall  get  there  with  as  many  as  six  half  dollars." 

"Right,  again.  And  now  remember  to  be  a  good 
boy,  and  always  do  just  as  I  used  to  teach  you,  and  you 
will  do  well  enough." 

The  friends  again  exchanged  greetings,  and  sepa- 
rated. The  schoolmaster  held  on  his  way  in  his  voca- 
tion, in  which  he  felt  himself  "almost  omnipotent," 
while  the  boy  soon  found  a  new  home  in  a  land  of 
strangers,  amid  temptations  new  and  strong. 

What  was  the  precise  history  of  this  youth  for  a 
number  of  years,  I  cannot  tell.  I  will,  however,  relate 
here  and  there  an  incident,  as  he  related  them  to  me 
some'  years  afterwards. 

He  was  musing  at  his  window  one  evening,  after  the 
labours  of  the  day.  The  cool,  evening  breeze  began  to 
play,  and  the  hum  of  business  began  to  die  away,  so 
that  the  footsteps  of  the  throng  on  the  side-walks  began 
to  fall  with  that  sharp  sound  which  almost  calls  back 
an  echo — a  tread  and  a  sound  peculiar  to  a  great  city. 
The  tide  of  living  beings,  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low, 
black  and  white,  was  pouring  along,  each  heart  centered 
in  itself,  and  each  making  itself  the  centre  of  the  world 


56  TRUE   HEROISM. 

to  him.  Just  then  a  splendid  carriage  came  rolling 
along.  The  deep  bays,  as  if  aware  that  they  were 
made  to  be  looked  at,  moved  with  a  light  but  moderate 
step,  curving  and  tossing  their  heads  as  if  in  scorn  of 
the  poor  human  beings  who  lacked  their  food  and  care. 
Tlie  carriage  contained  a  wealthy  merchant  and  his 
joyous  family.  They  were  full  of  life  ;  the  little  ones 
with  their  hands  full  of  flowers,  which  they  had  pro- 
cured at  one  of  those  splendid  gardens  which  adorn  the 
suburbs  of  Philadelphia. 

"That  merchant,"  said  Joseph  to  himself,  "came 
here  a  poor,  penny  less  boy.  Without  friends  or  aid  he 
has  become  rich — has  two  or  three  great  stores,  ships 
on  the  ocean,  a  splendid  house,  and  such  a  carriage ! 
Why  may  I  not  do  so  likewise  ]  I  see  I  can  never  be- 
come a  learned  man,  and  take  my  place  among  the  edu- 
cated minds  of  the  land ;  but  I  know  I  can  be  rich  if  I 
try.  Yes,  and  I  will  yet  go  back  to  my  native  village 
in  my  own  carriage,  and  they  shall  see  what  a  poor  boy 
can  do  for  himself    They  shall  see  a  proud  head  yet !" 

Just  as  these  lofty  and  splendid  images  were  passing 
through  the  imagination,  a  young  friend, — now  in 
heaven, — opened  the  door,  and  sat  down  by  his  side. 

"Well,  Dergy,  I  was  just  thinking  about" 

"  So  have  I  been  thinking  about  you,  Joseph,  all 
day." 

"  Ah !  I  am  glad  your  thoughts  were  so  well  em- 
ployed. Pray  what  about  me  did  you  think  1  That  I 
am  soon  to  be  hanged,  if  I  may  judge  from  your  looks." 

"  Forgive  my  seriousness,  Joseph ;  but  you  have  a 
soul — an  imperishable  mind  to  be  saved  or  lost  for 
ever.  This  life,  which  may  end  at  any  moment,  is 
your  only  time  to  secure  your  salvation.    My  own  life, 


TRUE  HEROISM.  57 

I  am  certain,  is  almost  over ;  and  it  has  been  impressed 
on  my  mind  that  I  must  talk  with  you  respecting-  your 
salvation.  Have  you  never  had  any  anxiety  for  the 
salvation  of  your  soul  J" 

"  Why,  no.  I  have  lived  morally,  have  done  no  hurt, 
and  I  know  that  God  is  good.  I  have  never  done  any 
thing  to  offend  him.  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  that 
he  will  cast  me  off;  and  I  beg  that  you  will  have  no 
anxiety  about  what  gives  me  no  trouble.  Come,  come, 
away  with  that  grave  face ;  I  am  in  no  mood  for  it 
We  shall  yet  ride  in  a  coach  together  often." 

The  conversation  was  not  dropped  until  an  hour  after* 
No  impressions  seemed  to  be  made,  and  the  friend  left 
him,  feeling  that  his  anxiety  and  conversation  were 
alike  lost. 

That  night  Joseph  did  not  sleep.  When,  at  length, 
the  morning  broke,  it  found  him  pale,  gloomy,  irritable, 
and  at  war  in  his  feelings  with  every  thing.  The  glo- 
rious sun  shed  not  a  ray  of  light  in  which  he  could  re- 
joice. He  arose,  and  went  up  the  sky,  like  a  king  in 
his  majesty ;  but  to  this  one  heart  he  seemed  clothed 
in  sackcloth.  The  fact  was,  the  Spirit  of  God  was 
calling  up  his  sins,  and  "  setting  them  in  order"  before 
him,  and  he  could  not  rejoice  in  any  thing.  Morose 
and  wretched,  a  continual  noise  seeming  to  be  in  his 
ears,  he  walked  out  of  the  city — away  and  alone.  The 
beautiful  Schuylkill  was  then  comparatively  a  lonely 
river.  The  noise  of  the  spindle  and  the  loom  was  not 
associated  with  the  Indian  name  of  Manayunk;  the 
'  rail-road  cars  did  not  leap  over  the  giddy  chasm  of  the 
Wissahiccon ;  and  the  coal-boats  had  not  learned  to  be 
ever  coming  and  going  up  and  down  the  Schuylkill,  as 
at  the  present  time.     The  young  man  climbed  up  one 

H 


58  TRUE  HEROISM. 

of  those  steep  and  wonderful  hills  which  seem  to  rise 
like  pillows,  against  which  the  river  rubs  itself  into  a 
murmur,  and  in  a  lonely  spot  sat  down,  for  his  feet 
seemed  to  refuse  to  carry  him  farther.  He  then  tried 
to  pray,  but  his  tongue  refused  to  utter  the  words.  A 
dark,  indescribable  feeling  of  horror  filled  his  bosom, 
while  the  terrors  of  the  violated  law  of  God  and  a  guilty 
conscience  seemed  to  be  laying  their  grappling-irons 
upon  his  naked  soul.  Tears  of  agony,  not  of  repent 
ance  and  contrition,  flowed  freely.  Many  times  he 
rushed  to  the  river  and  washed  them  away,  and  resolved 
that  henceforth  he  would  live  a  better  life — would  try 
to  please  God,  and  become  good.  But  something 
seemed  to  say,  "Will  that  atone  for  the  pasf?  Will 
you  do  it  because  you  love  God  and  a  good  life,  or  be- 
cause you  wish  to  pacify  conscience  with  good  resolu- 
tions 1  You  have  lived  without  God,  been  disobedient, 
ungrateful  and  unthankful,  and  will  the  promise  of  your 
poor  obedience  in  future  atone  for  your  past  life  1  Will 
this  house,  w^hich  you  are  now  building  upon  the  sand, 
be  safe  when  the  storms  rise,  and  the  floods  come  and 
beat  upon  it  ?  Is  your  promised  amendment  and  obedi- 
ence any  thing  but  self-righteousness  in  a  new  form ; 
and  has  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  any  thing  to  do  with  it, 
except  as  you  cast  in  his  name  to  make  out  your  right- 
eousness in  full  measure,  and  to  turn  the  balance  in 
your  favour  1  Is  this  any  thing  more  than  seizing  the 
best  materials  within  your  reach,  with  which  to  con- 
struct a  ladder  by  which  to  get  out  of  this  '  horrible  pit, 
and  this  miry  clay'?'  Are  you  not  contriving  how  you 
may  appease  God,  when  you  know  that  you  do  not 
love  him  J  If  God,  from  this  moment  and  for  ever, 
should  feel  towards  you  just  as  you  do  towards  him, 


TRUE   HEROISM.  gg 

Would  you  dare  rejoice  in  such  a  friendship  r'  The 
conscience  answered,  "  No,  no— my  heart  is  cold,  and 
dead  in  sin— selfish  and  vile.  I  am  a  ruined,  lost  sin- 
ner. I  deserve  nothing-  better  than  to  be  left  under  the 
dominion  of  sin  for  ever.  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my 
Father,  and  say.  Father,  'I  have  sinned  against  heaven 
and  in  thy  sight,  and  am  not  worthy  to  be  called  thy 
son.'  I  will  consecrate  my  life  to  God.  I  will  rejoice 
in  his  holiness.  I  will  go  to  the  cross  of  his  Son,  and 
tlirow  myself  upon  his  mercy;  and,  if  I  perish,  I  will 
perish  there." 

A  few  weeks  after  this  season  of  review  and  distress, 
this  youth  was  seen  standing-  up  before  the  great  con- 
gregation, and  uttering  these  vows  in  public.    His  life 
was  not  to  be  his  own.     The  coach,  and  the  trappings 
of  wealth,  were  enchanting-  no  longer.     They  were 
forgotten;  while  the  desire  for  cultivating,  enlarging, 
and  disciplining  the  mind,  and  making  it  an  instrument 
of  usefulness,  was  every  day  growing  stronger  and 
stronger.     It  was  all  he  had,  with  which  to  do  good 
while  he  lived  on  earth.     The  desire  to  go  to  college 
was  now  rekindled  with  inextinguishable  ardour.     He 
resolved  that  it  should  be  done.     But  what  difficulties- 
were  in  the  way?     He  was  without  friends,  among 
strangers,  and  entirely  destitute  of  property,  with  not 
a  single  voice  to  encourage.    Indeed,  I  have  heard  him 
say,  that  without  a  single  exception,  every  individual 
with  whom  he  conversed  endeavoured   to  discourage 
him.     One   thought   it  a  bold  undertaking,  and  one 
which  could  never  be  carried  through.     Another,  that 
he  had  not  talents  sufficient  by  which  to  become  a  scho- 
lar.   A  third,  that  he  might  make  a  good  business-man, 
and  it  was  a  great  pity  to  spoil  him  for  business.     He 


60  TRUE  HEROISM. 

had  not  a  friend  to  encourage,  or  the  means  to  purchase 
a  Latin  Grammar,  when  he  determined  to  study. 

A  year  or  two  after  this,  a  young  man  was  passing 
through  New  Jersey  on  his  way  to  the  nearest  college 
in  his  native  New  England,  with  his  wardrobe  under 
one  arm,  and  the  books  with  which  he  fitted  for  college 
under  the  other.  Who  that  has  ever  entered  college, 
conscious  that  he  was  but  indifferently  fitted  to  enter 
and  to  compete  with  those  who  had  every  advantage, 
can  forget  the  fears  and  doubts  which  drove  away  his 
peace  for  weeks  previous?  How  anxious  to  have  friends 
examine  him  that  they  may  add  to  his  confidence  1  But 
to  go  alone,  destitute,  with  not  a  friend  to  sympathize, 
or  cheer,  or  aid, — this  is  a  trial  through  which  a  kind 
Providence  calls  but  a  few  to  pass.  More  than  once  in 
the  course  of  the  journey,  did  Joseph  hear  people  ask 
if  he  wanted  "to  hire  himself  out;"  or,  in  more  polite 
words  perhaps,  ask  if  he  "was  seeking  employment." 
But  onward  he  went,  resolved  that  he  would  fit  himself 
to  honour  God,  and  to  be  useful  among  men,  trusting 
tliat  the  approving  eye  of  the  great  Redeemer  was 
upon  him  for  good.  With  money  barely  sufficient  to 
reach  college,  it  would  have  been  a  mystery  to  all,  had 
all  known  his  circumstances,  how  he  could  thus  hope 
against  hope.     But  enter  college  he  did. 

Did  the  reader  ever  enter  the  steamboat  at  Whitehall, 
and  follow  the  muddy  creek  along  up  amid  the  wild 
scenery,  here  scaring  up  a  solitary  heron,  and  there  a 
wild  duck,  wondering  what  would  come  next,  till  the 
heiglits  and  fort  of  Ticonderoga  came  in  sight,  and  the 
beautiful  Lake  Champlain  began  to  open,  amid  scenery 
scarcely  surpassed  in  creation]     Did  he  ever  sit  under 


TRUE   HEROISM.  61 

the  awning  of  this  same  boat,  elegant  and  bright  like  a 
bird  of  the  lake,  watching  the  ever-varying  scenes,  till 
Burlington  was  before  him,  sitting  on  the  side-hill,  mo- 
dest and  beautiful  as  one  of  her  own  daughters  in  her 
teens,  and  gazing  gently  down  upon  him  1  ■  Did  he  not 
leave  this  sweet  village  with  regret, — the  squares,  the 
lawns,  the  college,  and  even  the  fishing  boy  with  his 
long  line  searching  for  the  fish  down  the  deep  waters'? 
And  as  he  gazed  back,  did  he  not  wonder  how  he  could 
love  this  spot  so  much  in  so  short  a  time  1  Did  he  not 
wonder  still  more,  that  he  could  so  soon  forget  all  this, 
as  he  passed  on  amid  the  increasing  loveliness  opening 
up  the  lake?  Did  the  reader  never  look  with  admira- 
tion upon  that  enchanting  spot  called  Grand  Isle — an- 
chored off  as  if  cooling  herself  in  the  lake ;  while  Platts- 
burg  and  St.  Albans,  like  an  eye  in  each  state,  New 
York  and  Vermont,  seem  to  be  casting  most  coveting 
glances  upon  this  water-nymph]  If  he  has  not  seen 
all  this,  he  has  much  pleasure  before  him,  should  he 
ever  visit  this  delightful  region. 

Before  the  steamboat  had  learned  to  traverse  these 
waters,  the  lake  and  the  isle  were  there,  just  as  they 
are  now.  At  the  close  of  the  day,  in  early  autumn,  I 
rode  up  to  a  small  tavern  on  the  lower  point  of  the 
island,  just  in  sight  of  the  place  around  which  during 
the  last  war,  the  British  fleet  hove  on  a  bright  Sabbath 
morning.  There  the  cannon  roared,  the  groans  of 
death  were  heard,  the  blood  reddened  the  waters, 
and  the  shouts  of  victory  were  heard — the  victory  of 
McDonough !  I  was  standing  in  the  little  piazza,  and 
calling  to  mind  this  strife  of  blood  between  two  nations 
bound  together  by  every  tie — and  between  which  no 
other  feelings  save  those  of  mother  and  daughter  ought 


■I, 


62  TRUE   HEROISM. 

ever  to  exist, — when  the  landlady  came  up,  and  asked 
me  to  step  up  stairs  and  see  "a  poor  sick  young  man — 
a  stranger." 

"Do  you  know  who  he  is,  or  where  he  came  from]" 
"No,  sir.  He  came  across  the  lake,  a  few  days 
since ;  and  when  he  rode  up,  I  thought  he  must  be  in- 
toxicated. He  could  hardly  sit  on  his  horse ;  and  when 
he  stopped,  he  rather  fell  off  than  got  off.  He  has  been 
here  three  days ;  and  though  I  have  tried  to  coax  him, 
yet  he  has  eaten  nothing  but  one  soft  egg  a-day  since  he 
came.  The  poor  fellow  tells  me  he  lias  no  friends,  and 
I  think  he  is  not  long  for  this  world.  He  seems  to  be 
a  very  good  man." 

On  entering  the  chamber  I  found  him  on  the  bed, 
leaning  on  his  elbow,  and  gazing  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  same  spot  at  which  I  had  just  been  looking. 
He  seemed  glad  to  see  a  new  face ;  told  me  his  name 
was  Joseph ,  a  member  of  the  junior  class  in  col- 
lege ;  that  he  had  left  college,  as  a  last  resort  to  gain 
his  health,  which  was  prostrated  by  study.  He  was 
supposed  to  be  in,  what  is  there  called,  the  "  galloping 
consumption," — had  reached  this  spot,  and  here  became 
too  feeble  to  go  farther.  Others  thought  he  was  near 
the  grave,  and  would  never  leave  this  place :  but  he 
was  cheerful,  elastic,  expecting  to  live  and  do  much 
good.  I  shook  my  head,  but  did  not  shake  his  hopes  or 
confidence.  I  never  before  saw  a  spirit  so  buoyant,  so 
confident  in  the  belief  that  God  would  use  it  as  an  in- 
strument of  usefulness  to  men.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing 
short  of  the  hand  of  death  could  crush,  or  even  repress 
this  hope.  He  had  a  dreadful  cough,  and  every  symp- 
tom seemed  discouraging.  Even  liis  hopes — were  they 
not  such  as  every  consumptive  patient  cherishes]     I 


r%?- 


TRUE   HEROISM.  63 

left  him,  when  I  could  possibly  stay  no  longer,  deter- 
mined to  call  him  my  friend  if  he  lived,  and  to  weep 
over  him  if  he  died.  I  even  selected  a  beautifully  ro- 
mantic spot,  which  the  good  landlady  agreed  should  be 
the  resting  place  of  the  poor  student,  if  he  died  there. 
I  was  nearly  as  confident  that  he  would,  as  if  I  had 
seen  his  grave  opened. 

He  did  not  die.  It  was  years  before  I  again  saw  my 
friend.  Every  time  I  heard  from  him,  brought  me  the 
tidings  that  he  was  steadily,  silently,  surely  advancing 
towards  the  goal  upon  which  his  eye  was  fixed,  and 
which  he  always  saw,  let  what  clouds  soever  there 
might  be,  come  between  him  and  it.  If  his  mind  was 
not  what  might  be  called  brilliant,  and  if  his  feelings 
were  not  so  much  like  phosphorus  as  some  admire, — yet 
for  strength  of  conception,  for  accuracy  of  judgment,  for 
weighing  the  reasons  and  causes  of  events  and  things, 
few  were  his  superiors.  I  saw  him  struggle  into  his 
profession,  and  rejoiced  that  already  he  had  acquired 
that  best  of  all  capital, — character. 

I  will  bring  my  friend  before  the  reader  but  once 
more.  He  had  been  in  his  profession  some  years,  and 
so  had  I,  when  we  met  unexpectedly,  under  circum- 
stances peculiarly  interesting.  I  was  passing  through 
one  of  those  small,  quiet,  beautiful  villages,  with  which 
New  England  abounds,  when  I  came  to  a  neat  little 
house,  surrounded  by  flowers  and  shrubbery.  At  the 
gate  two  females  were  standing,  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion in  low  tones.    Just  as  I  was  passing  them,  I  heard 

one  of  them  say,  "  Mr.  Joseph has  come,  and  is 

now  w^ith  her." 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Joseph V  said  I. 


64  TRUE  HEROISM. 

"  Yes,  sir,  very  well.  He  often  comes  here  to  see 
about  his  mother ;  at  least  he  comes  every  year." 

"  And  is  he  here  now'?  I  did  not  know  that  he  had 
a  mother.     Is  she  now  living-]" 

"  Why,  sir,  he  has  a  mother,  indeed.  She  has  been 
a  poor,  deranged  creature  for  many  years — as  long  ago 
as  he  can  remember — ay,  and  longer  too.  But  he  has 
been  very  kind  to  her." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  vouch  for  that.  I  know  him  well. 
But  does  his  mother  live  with  him  ]" 

"  No  sir ;  she  lives  in  this  very  house.  He  has  sup- 
ported her  for  many  years,  like  a  good  son,  though  she 
don't  know  him.  But  she  is  dying  now,  and  he  has 
come  here,  after  riding'  all  night.  He  is  now  in  that 
house." 

I  was  soon  passing-  through  the  front-yard  to  greet 
my  friend,  but  as  I  approached  the  door,  which  stood 
ajar,  I  recollected  that  it  was  the  house  of  death.  And 
we  always  unconsciously  tread  softly  in  the  house  of 
the  dying,  as  if  the  noise  of  the  footstep  would  both  dis- 
turb the  spirit  about  leaving  its  clay,  and  grate  harshly 
upon  the  ear  listening  to  the  dying  groans  of  a  loved 
one.  On  entering  the  room,  I  saw  my  friend  sitting 
with  his  back  towards  me,  and  holding  in  his  arms  an 
aged  female.  She  was  tall,  noble  in  mien ;  but  even 
then,  while  the  breath  came  and  went  slowly  and  pain- 
fully, every  breath  seeming  to  be  the  last,  the  wild  look 
of  the  eye  told  the  tale — reason  was  still  gone.  The 
son  was  raising  her  up  with  the  left  arm,  while  with 
the  right  hand  he  administered  some  simple  drink. 
He  was  looking  anxiously  into  her  countenance,  to  see 
if  it  were  not  possible  to  catch  at  least  one  look,  one 
ray  of  light  from  reason,  which  might  possibly  glimmer 


TRUE  HEROISM.  65 

again.  He  often  pronounced  the  endearing  word 
"mother."  Was  the  harp  so  crushed  and  shattered, 
that  its  mysterious  strings  could  not  emit  one  more 
sound "?  She  evidently  knew  not  the  arm  that  sustained 
her,  and  had  been  sustaining  her  for  years.  To  test 
her  state  of  mind  once  more,  he  tried  the  talismanic 
name,  and  pronounced  the  word  "  the  Doctor."  A 
slight  cloud  seemed  to  pass  over  her  face  for  a  moment. 
Her  mind  was  going  back  to  other  years. 

"  The  Doctor !  Oh,  he  has  not  come  home.  I  will 
go  and  look  up  the  mountain-road,  to  see  if  he  is  not 
coming.  There  is  an  awful  place  somewhere  there, 
and  I  am  afraid  he  will  drive  into  it.  It  is  getting 
dark,  very  dark,  but  it  don't  thunder,  and  I  hope  the 
Doctor  will  get  home  safe.  I  have  put  them  all  to  bed, 
just  as  he  loves  to  see  them — even  little  Jose  himself, 
though  he  cried  hard  to  sit  up  till  his  father  came  home. 
He  is  a  queer  little  fellow,  that  Jose — and  I  hope  he 
will  live." 

"  My  mother,  my  mother,  can  you  not  know  me  V* 
groaned  my  friend. 

'^  Yes,  yes — you  are — a  good  neighbour.  But  sure 
I  hear  the  Doctor's  horse !  Has  he  got  over  that 
dreadful  place  ]  I  must  go  to  the  door  and  meet  him, 
and  tell  him  about  Jose ;  he  said  his  prayers  just  as  if 
he  loved  to  say  them,  and  I  love  to  hear  praying  even 
from  a  child.  And  it  comforts  me,  too,  to  have  you 
come  in  and  pray  so  often ;  but  why  don't  you  come 
when  the  Doctor  is  in  ]  I  know  he  would  be  glad  to 
hear  you.  But  oh !  how  dark  it  grows — my  head  too — 
the  Doctor,  and  the  children — the  road  down  the 
mountain" 

It  was  all  over.     The  spirit,  so  long  confined  to  the 

I 


6Q  TRUE   HEROISM. 

deranged  habitation — the  spirit,  undiseased,  rose  to 
that  God  who  made  it.  My  friend,  with  his  own  hand, 
closed  the  eyes,  which  had  not  recognised  him  since  his 
very  childhood — till  they  shall  open  in  the  morning  of 
the  resurrection-day.  For  some  minutes  he  sat  holding 
the  lifeless  clay  of  his  mother,  evidently  engaged  in 
thinking  over  the  mysteries  of  an  all-wise  and  holy 
Providence,  and  praying  that  the  gates  of  everlasting 
day  might  be  opened  to  the  ascending  spirit.  He  then 
carefully  laid  down  the  corpse,  and  our  eyes  met  for 
the  first  time.  We  rushed  into  each  other's  arms,  and 
then  tears  flowed  in  abundance. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  he,  "that  it  is  possible  for  a 
soul,  situated  in  Providence  as  that  poor  woman  has 
been  for  so  many  years, — do  you  think  it  possible  that 
it  may  be  sanctified  and  redeemed?" 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  question  first:  do  you  suppose  it 
was  the  spirit,  or  the  body  that  was  diseased]" 

"  A  new  question  truly ;  but  I  had  always  supposed 
both.     What  do  you  sayl" 

"  I  say  that  if  both  are  diseased,  then  the  spirit  has 
passed  into  eternity,  and  gone  back  to  its  God  dis- 
eased,— and  a  process  of  cure  must  go  on  there.  No, 
I  believe  the  body  was  diseased,  and  that  the  mind  in 
such  a  body,  could  not  receive  correct  impressions  of 
outward  objects.  But  I  believe  the  mind  within,  is 
unscathed, — as  music  is  untouched,  wiiile  the  harp 
through  which  it  is  poured,  is  crushed  and  broken. 
Consequently,  I  do  believe  the  Holy  Spirit  may  have 
access  to  the  soul  of  the  maniac,  who  was  suddenly  cut 
off  from  the  common  conditions  of  probation,  and  may 
there  carry  on  a  process  of  sanctification  of  which  we 
may  be  unconscious.     From  what  we  know  of  mind,  I 


TRUE   HEROISM.  67 

believe  this  may  be  so ;  and  from  what  I  know  of  the 
mercy  of  that  God  which  has  created  the  mind,  and  can 
have  ways  of  access  to  it  of  which  we  are  wholly  igno- 
rant, I  believe  it  is,  at  least,  frequently  so.  I  can, 
therefore,  conscientiously  say,  I  believe  there  is  hope, 
strong  hope,  and  a  rational  hope,  concerning  your  poor 
mother." 

I  staid  with  my  friend  till  "dust  had  returned  to 
dust."  He  followed  his  mother  to  the  grave,  a  solitary 
mourner. 

I  have  seen  this  man  occupying  a  most  commanding 
place  in  the  church  of  God,  commanding  in  influence, 
respectability  and  usefulness ;  I  have  heard  him  speak 
in  manly  tones,  and  with  surprising  power,  before  the 
great  congregation ;  and  I  have  seen  his  writings  pub- 
lished in  other  countries  and  in  other  languages ; — but 
I  have  never  seen  him  where  he  appeared  so  truly 
great,  as  he  did  when  he  sat  on  the  bed-side  holding 
in  his  arms  his  dying  mother.  I  have  seen  many 
most  enviable  characters,  but  few  to  be  compared  to 
this  man  for  traits  noble,  manly.  Christian.  I  never 
see  him  without  admiring  the  native  energy  of  his 
character,  the  wonderful  providences  by  which  he  was 
led,  and  the  fields  of  usefulness  to  which  he  has  been 
conducted. 

Philadelphia. 


68 


PRAYER. 


BY  GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 


Prayer  makes  us  holy.     But  it  seem'd  with  her 
To  be  some  purer  breathing  of  the  soul, 
Than  that  which  bows  it  to  the  altar-place, 
Beneath  vast  domes — 'mid  saints  and  images. 
And  the  great  choirs. — There  sat  upon  her  brow 
A  glory  from  above,  that  hallows  prayer. 
And  sanctifies  the  service. — As  she  knelt 
The  rich  hair  cluster'd  on  her  snowy  neck, 
Shadowing  the  beauty  that  it  could  not  veil; 
And  her  small  chisel'd  hand  beneath  the  moon 
Gleam'd  pale  and  trembling. — From  her  parted  lips 
There  went  low  sound  of  music — and  the  tone 
Was  of  a  spirit  that  is  heard  in  Heaven 
When  Earth  gives  back  no  echo ! 

But  her  eye  i 
O  who  shall  whisper  of  that  light ! — how  far, 
And  yet  how  tangible  !     You  could  gaze  in, 
As  to  deep  waters — when  the  sky  is  bow'd, 
A  second  Heaven  pictur'd  in  the  fount 
Of  an  unfathom'd  glory ! 

I  could  hear 
The  voice  of  that  sweet  prayer — and  as  I  heard 
My  head  was  bent  in  stillness  to  the  book. 
And  my  lip  mov'd  in  reverence. 

'Twas  a  prayer 
Like  that  which  angels  chant  above  their  lyres, 


COUCH  OF  SLEEPING  CHILDREN.     QQ 

As  they  bend  o'er  them  'mid  the  listening  stars ! 
It  was  that  prayer  of  nobler  eloquence, 
Whose  voice  falls  gently  on  us — but  whose  soul 
Sweeps  like  a  tide  about  us ! 

Oh !  how  deep, 
How  wondrous  is  this  magic  sympathy, 
That  breathes  of  Earth,  yet  fashions  us  for  Heaven ! 
Portland,  (Me.) 


A  MOTHER  AT  THE  COUCH  OF  HER  SLEEPING 
CHILDREN. 

BY  MRS.  JOHN  S.  LARNED. 

Sleep,  like  the  sigh  of  Summer, 

Has  sooth'd  them  into  rest : — 
How  soft  the  breathing  murmur 

Of  each  young,  guileless  breast ! 

My  lovely  bairns !  Dear,  precious  ties ! 

I  scarce  can  hold  the  tears 
Which  gather  in  my  brimming  eyes. 

As  I  gaze  upon  ye,  dears ! 

The  round  cheek,  almost  hiding 

The  little  dimpled  arm — 
The  golden  ringlets,  twining 

Around  those  brows  so  calm. 

My  fair,  bright,  smiling  Annie, 
With  voice  like  music's  tone — 


70  COUCH   OF   SLEEPING   CHILDREN. 

My  Ellen,  sweet  and  cannie, — 
I  joy  that  you're  my  own. 

Is  it  a  sigh  you  murmur, 
As  o'er  your  couch  I  bend  1 

Can  grief,  or  wo,  or  sorrow. 
To  guileless  bosoms  tend  1 

O,  could  a  mother's  wishes 
Bring  blessings  to  you,  dears, 

I'd  seek  enduring  riches. 

High  hopes  beyond  the  spheres ! 

What  are  the  fleeting  pleasures 

Of  such  a  world  as  this, 
Compar'd  to  heavenly  treasures, 

To  never-ending  bliss ! 

Earth  has  no  gem  so  precious 

As  a  bright,  happy  child ! 
Its  sunny  smile  will  soothe  us, 

Till  of  our  griefs  beguil'd. 

If  the  holy  Saviour  took 

These  dear  ones  to  his  arms, 

A  mother  sure  may  look 
Exulting  on  their  charms. 

To  thee,  O  blessed  Saviour, 

My  little  ones  I  give : 
Bestow  thy  gracious  favour. 

That  they  in  thee  may  live ! 

Providence,  (R.  I.) 


71 


WHO  WAS  MARY  MAGDALEN? 

BY  ftlRS.  OPIE. 

The  general  answer  to  this  question  would  probably 
be,  "  She  was  the  woman  in  the  city  which  was  a  sin- 
ner," who,  according  to  Luke,  when  Jesus  sat  at  meat 
in  the  house  of  the  Pharisee,  brought  an  alabaster  box 
of  ointment,  and  stood  at  his  feet  behind  him  weeping, 
and  began  to  wash  his  feet  with  tears,  and  did  wipe 
them  with  the  hairs  of  her  head,  and  kissed  his  feet, 
and  anointed  them  with  ointment ;  the  woman  to  whom 
he  said,  after  having  drawn  a  comparison  between  her 
conduct  to  him  and  that  of  the  Pharisee,  "  Thy  sins 
are  forgiven  thee."  "  Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee.  Go 
in  peace." 

But  there  were  evidently  two  anointings.  The  one 
above  mentioned,  which  is  recorded  by  Luke ;  and  an- 
other related  by  John.  The  former,  as  taking  place  at 
Nain  or  Capernaum,  in  the  house  of  a  Pharisee  named 
Simon ;  the  latter,  at  "  a  house  in  Bethany,  where  they 
made  him  a  supper." 

On  that  occasion,  the  anointer  was  "  Mary,  the  sister 
of  Lazarus,"  who  brought  a  very  costly  ointment  to  do 
the  Saviour  honour,  with  which  she  is  said  to  have 
anointed  both  his  head  and  feet ;  but  though  like  the 
nameless  "  woman  a  sinner,"  she  wiped  his  feet  with 
her  hair,  she  did  not  wash  them  with  her  tears ;  nor 
does  the  Saviour  address  her  as  he  addressed  the  weep- 


72  WHO   WAS   MARY    MAGDALEN? 

ing  penitent  when  he  dismissed  her.  But  when  Judas 
Iscariot  rebuked  Mary  for  not  having  sold  the  ointment, 
and  given  the  money  to  the  poor,  the  Lord  replied, 
"  Let  her  alone.  Against  the  day  of  my  burial  has  she 
done  this.  For  the  poor  ye  have  always  with  you,  but 
me  ye  have  not  always." 

And  learned  commentators  are  not  generally  agreed 
that  the  woman  a  smner,  and  Mary,  the  sister  of  Laza- 
rus, cannot  be  the  same  person;  but  they  also  declare 
their  belief,  that  the  woman  who  is  said  by  Matthew 
and  Mark  to  have  anointed  the  Saviour  as  he  sat  at 
meat  in  Bethany,  at  the  house  of  Simon  the  leper,  was 
Mary,  the  sister  of  Lazarus." 

But  "  Who,  then,  was  Mary  Magdalene  1  Was  she 
not  the  sinner  mentioned  by  Luke  in  his  seventh  chap- 
ter'?" I  answer,  let  us  turn  to  the  beginning  of  his 
eighth :  "  And  it  came  to  pass  afterward,  that  he  went 
tliroughout  every  city  and  village  preaching  and  show- 
ing the  glad  tidings  of  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  the 
twelve  were  with  him ;  and  certain  women  which  had 
been  healed  of  evil  spirits  and  infirmities.  Mary, 
called  Magdalene^  out  of  whom  went  seven  devils,  and 
Joanna  the  wife  of  Chuza,  Herod's  steward,  and  Su- 
sanna, and  many  others  which  ministered  to  him  of 
their  substance." 

Now,  surely  if  Mary  Magdalene  had  been  the  sinner 
mentioned  in  the  preceding  pages,  the  evangelist 
would  have  begun  his  eighth,  after  the  manner  in 
whicli  John  began  his  eleventh  chapter.  "It  was  that 
Mary,"  John  says,  "which  anointed  the  Lord  with 
ointment,  and  wiped  his  feet  with  her  hair,  whose  bro- 
ther Lazarus  was  sick."  And  Luke  would  most  likely 
have  said,  liad  the  fact  been  so,  "It  was  that  Mary 


WHO   WAS   MARY   MAGDALEN?  73 

Magdalene  who  was  the  woman,  a  sinner,  who  anointed 
the  feet  of  the  Saviour  and  washed  them  with  her  tears:' 
But  he  knew  they  were  two  distinct  persons,  and  he 
describes  her  by  her  own  and  only  peculiarity,  namely, 
that  she  was  one  out  of  whom  went  seven  devils. 

Another  confirmation  of  this  view  of  Mary  Magda- 
lene, is  offered  by  the  last  chapter  of  Mark.     "Now 
when  Jesus  was  risen  early,  the  first  day  of  the  week, 
he  appeared  first  to  Mary  Magdalene,  out  of  whom  he' 
had  cast  seven  devils."    But  had  he  known  her  to  have 
been  the  sinner  who  had  anointed  the  Saviour,  and  of 
whom  he  had  previously  written,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
but  that  he  would  have  mentioned  the  fact,  as  well  as 
the  other.    Besides  she  was  the  associate  of  the  wife  of 
Herod's  steward.     She  was  allowed  to  minister  of  her 
substance  to  the  wants  of  the  Saviour,  which  could  not 
have  been  permitted  to  the  woman  who  was  a  well- 
known  sinner;  and  she  is  always  named  Jirst  on  the 
list  of  his  female  followers,  as  if  she  was  entitled  to 
precedence. 

According-  to  commentators,  she  was  called  Magda- 
lene because  she  lived  at  Magdala,  of  Galilee— whence 
she  probably  came,  in  the  humble  reliance  of  faith,  to 
seek  the  Saviour,  in  order  to  be  cured  of  her  malady, 
and  had  afterwards  devoted  herself  to  his  service,  from' 
grateful  affection. 

And  how  richly  was  she  repaid  for  her  devotion  to 
her  Redeemer,  and  for  that  fearless  love  which  led  her 
to  be 

"Last  at  the  cross,  and  earliest  at  the  grave." 

To  her  he  first  showed  himself  after  he  rose  from  the 
dead,  and  to  her  he  confided  the  message  to  the  disci- 

K 


74  WHO   WAS   MARY    MAGDALEN? 

pies,  informmg-  them  of  his  approaching  ascension. 
These  circumstances  have  long  led  me  to  consider 
Mary  Magdalene  as  the  most  favoured  and  most  envi- 
able of  all  the  Saviour's  female  followers,  and  indeed 
of  "all  mankind;"  and  I  might  add,  the  most  calum- 
niated also. 

The  disciples  were,  in  one  respect,  equally  enviable, 
because  they  too  had  ocular  demonstration  of  his  resur- 
rection before  the  cloud  received  him  from  their  sight. 
But  to  us,  whose  faith  in  that  resurrection  is  founded 
on  written  testimony  alone,  it  is  comforting  to  remem- 
ber the  words  of  the  blessed  Saviour  to  the  sceptical 
Thomas:  "Because  thou  hast  seen  me  thou  hast  be- 
lieved. Blessed  are  they  that  have  not  seen  and  yet 
have  believed." 

Norwich,  (Eng.)  2d  mo.  26th,  1837. 


75 


THE  ENVIED  ONE. 


BY  MRS.  OPIE. 


Whom  do  I  envy  most  of  womankind  ] 

Where  does  my  heart  this  envied  object  find  ] 

Not  in  the  chronicles  of  sovereign  sway, 

Midst  queens  who  bade  admiring  crowds  obey — 

Nor  in  the  records  of  bright  Beauty's  power — 

Nor  in  the  Muses'  Amaranthine  bower — 

Nor  e'en  amidst  those  loftier  rolls  of  Fame, 

Where  Virtue's  glory  shines  round  woman's  name : — 

Within  the  Gospel's  hallow'd  page  I  find 

Her  whom  I  envy  most  of  "  womankind :" 

That  Mary,  who,  as  holy  men  record, 

The  first  beheld  and  hail'd  her  risen  Lord ! 

E'en  ere  the  dawn  one  feeble  glimmering  gave, 
The  faithful  follower  sought  "  the  Master's"  grave, 
And  found,  where  late  the  martyr'd  Saviour  lay, 
The  tomb  unclos'd,  the  body  borne  away. 
Then  to  the  town,  on  rapid  feet  she  fled. 
And  to  the  grave  the  Lord's  disciples  led : 
Alarm'd,  they  saw  and  wonder'd,  while  they  griev'd — 
But  one  disciple,  as  he  mourn'd,  believ'd : 
Yet  to  their  homes  e'en  he  at  once  return'd, 
While  Mary  still  remain'd,  and  watch'd  and  mourn'd : 
When,  as  around  she  anxious  glances  sent. 
Or  o'er  the  sepulchre  desponding  bent, 


78  THEENVIEDONE. 

That  far-fam'd  Bethany,  ordain'd  to  prove 
The  scene  of  power  Divine,  and  pitying-  love ; 
But  still  more  deeply  dear  to  Mary's  breast, 
Because  'twas  there  he  gave  his  last  behest. 
Ere  yet  the  cloud  receiv'd  him  from  the  sight, 
And  bore  the  Conqueror  to  his  throne  of  light. 

Thus  Fancy  pictures  Mary's  closing  days, 
Varied  with  works  of  love,  with  prayer,  with  praise ; 
Thus  sees  her,  o'er  the  darken'd  present  cast 
The  pure,  celestial  radiance  of  the  past ; 
Till,  by  the  Master's  voice  the  summons  given. 
The  faithful  Mary  hail'd  her  Lord  in  Heaven. 

Norwicli,  (Eng.)  2d  mo.  26th,  1837. 


• 


■f     M 


EngTi-^-iiyV.'F.; 


79 


COTTAGE    PIETY. 

BY  J.  K.  MITCHELL,  M.D. 

"  Yours  is  a  hard  lot,"  said  Thornton  to  his  neigh- 
bour Thomson;  "I  wonder  how  you  contrive  to  bear 
up  under  it." 

"  If,"  replied  Thomson,  "  I  looked  to  .earth  as  the 
only  resting  place,  I  should  indeed  be  most  miserable. 
The  loss  of  property  to  an  old  man  is  often  irreparable, 
but  the  loss  of  his  children  is  a  still  deeper  affliction. 
An  old  man  necessarily  sees  his  friends  fall  into  the 
grave ;  and  he  feels,  as  each  one  bids  him  adieu,  that 
there  is  no  one  to  fill  the  void  in  his  heart.  Those  of 
his  own  age  are  like  old  trees,  that  may  show  fresh 
leaves,  but  put  forth  no  new  branches.  They  have  the 
courtesies,  but  not  the  affections  at  command.  Those 
who  are  younger,  have  little  desire  for  new  friendships. 
They  prefer  the  congenial  associations  of  a  similar 
stage  of  life.  They  are  under  restraint  with  their  se- 
niors, and  true  friendship  grows  not  in  a  stiff  soil.  An 
old  man,  therefore,  as  his  aged  props  are  cut  from  be- 
neath him,  falls  downward  on  the  supporting  love  of  his 
children ;  and  when  they  too  are  dashed  to  the  ground, 
he  has  but  a  cold  earth  to  rest  on.  But,  my  dear  neigh- 
bour, I  have  long  been  taught  not  to  lean  exclusively 
on  any  thing  in  this  world.  It  is  indeed  a  state  of  trial, 
in  which  a  rational  being  should  not  shrink  from  the 
tests  of  his  fitness  for  the  unclouded  glory  of  the  world 


80  COTTAGE   PIETY. 

to  which  we  journey.  His  chief  concern  should  be  to 
so  invoke  the  favour  of  God,  as  to  have  no  unblest  afflic- 
tion, no  useless  trial.  A  grief  which  makes  us  better, 
or  wiser,  is  like  the  overflowing  of  the  Nile,  which, 
though  it  drives  the  husbandman  from  his  farm,  amply 
rewards  him  for  the  sacrifice.  But  a  sorrow  which 
brings  no  improvement,  is  like  the  mountain  torrent 
which  sweeps  away  the  soil  and  lays  waste  the  labours 
of  the  peasant.  The  dear  child,  whom  we  have  just 
consigned  to  the  tomb,  is  nearly  the  last  of  our  offspring. 
One  by  one,  they  have  been  demanded  of  us,  and  we 
have  wept  at  the  parting;  but  oh,  what  a  consoling 
thought  from  heaven  has  mingled  with  the  grief  of  na- 
ture !  We  trained  them  up  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
and  they  did  not  depart  from  the  pathway  of  love  and 
obedience.  We  buried  their  mortal  part,  but  they  had 
the  double  witness  of  scripture  and  conscience  to  prove 
their  right  to  a  seat  in  the  many  mansions  of  their 
Father's  house  in  heaven.  For  them  we  ought  rather 
to  rejoice :  for  our  loss  alone  we  grieve." 

"Well,  neighbour,"  replied  the  other,  "you  have 
always  had  a  singular  way  of  viewing  things ;  and  it 
may  be  easier  to  bear  such  losses  as  these  than  I  sup- 
posed. I  have  not  been  tried  in  that  way ;  but  I  have 
known  the  distress  of  the  loss  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
hard  earnings  of  a  lifetime,  and  you  see  what  a  wreck 
it  has  made  of  my  poor  frame.  I  have  scarcely  strength 
to  come  to  sympathize  with  you,  who  have  so  often  en- 
deavoured to  console  me ;  and  now  I  perceive  that  I 
miglit  have  saved  myself  the  trouble,  for  you  find  com- 
fort where  /  could  not  have  discovered  it  for  you.  I 
trust  you  will  never  have  such  losses  as  mine,  or  that 
you  will  be  able  to  bear  them  better." 


COTTAGE    PIETY.  81 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Thomson,  "  you  do  not  ap- 
preciate sufficiently  the  principle  on  which  I  endeavour 
to  support  afflictions.  The  consolation  of  the  Christian, 
the  true  Christian,  is  universally  applicable  and  ini- 
mitably available,  for  it  is  the  power  and  goodness  of 
God.  'Afflictions  spring-  not  from  the  ground.'  De- 
vised by  infinite  wisdom,  and  sent  by  unbounded  mercy, 
they  come  to  us  blessings  in  disguise.  They  are  in- 
flicted by  love,  for  '  whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chaste n- 
eth.'  If,  for  our  sakes,  the  Son  of  God  -bore  the  fiercest 
extremes  of  human  sufterings,  should  we  be  unwilling 
to  endure  lesser  misfortunes  for  our  own  sakes  ]  Per- 
mitted to  view  this  subject  as  I  do,  I  trust  that  any  loss 
will  fail  to  break  my  heart,  or  ruin  my  health;  and 
that  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  say  with  sincerity, 

'  O  Master !  good  or  evil  send, 

As  seemeth  best  to  thee  : 
But  teach  my  stubborn  soul  to  bend 
In  love  to  thy  decree. 

'  Whatever  come,  if  thou  wilt  bless 

The  brightness  and  the  gloom, 
And  temper  joy,  and  soothe  distress, 
I  fear  no  earthly  doom.' 

Such  power  of  endurance,  derived  from  such  a  source, 
is  not  unexampled.  Job  suffered  under  calamities 
which  cannot  be  equalled  in  any  possible  contingency 
of  mine ;  for  he  stood  on  the  unsheltered  pinnacle  of 
fortune,  where  blow  the  fiercest  storms,  and  from  which 
tlie  fall  is  always  hardest  to  bear.  Yet  fortune,  power, 
children,  health,  were  suddenly  destroyed,  without  the 
loss  of  patience,  or  of  confidence  in  God.  '  The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord.'    Worse  than  all,  far  worse  than  the 

L 


Q2  COTTAGE   PIETY. 

privation  of  the  natural  and  acquired  goods  of  life,  Job 
endured  the  slur  on  his  hitherto  unsullied  character, 
and  that  too  from  his  nearest  and  best  friends,  those 
who,  when  all  the  world  deserted  him,  came  to  offer 
him  consolation.  That  grief  will  at  least  be  spared  me  ; 
for  it  is  not  one  of  the  least  of  the  countless  blessings 
of  our  system,  that  it  avows  the  connexion  between 
sorrow  and  divine  love,  and  leaves  us  no  longer  to  the 
terrific  belief  that  we  are  smitten  solely  for  our  iniqui- 
ties, and  that  the  severity  of  a  man's  misfortunes  is  the 
measure  of  his  wickedness.  There  is  for  me  another 
consolation,  under  any  possible  evil.  My  dear  wife  is 
a  Christian,  and  instead  of  urging  me  to  '  curse  God 
and  die,'  she  constantly  presents  me  the  soothing  texts 
where  are  recorded  the  motives  for,  and  the  uses  of, 
affliction.  Example  is  added  to  precept.  Her  tears 
are  not  tears  of  bitterness.  They  are  shed  in  tender- 
ness, and  dried  in  hope.  Her  wounded  bosom,  like  that 
of  the  pelican,  affords  a  vivifying  flow  for  her  children. 
Chastened  sorrow,  and  rational  resignation,  are  lessons 
gracefully  given,  and  therefore  willingly  received." 

In  this  strain  Thomson  continued,  less  to  soothe  his 
own  grief,  than  to  convey  to  a  friend  whom  he  loved, 
in  spite  of  his  faults,  a  practical  illustration  of  the  value 
of  a  faith  of  which  he  held  too  low  an  estimate.  The 
seed  was  sown  by  the  wayside  so  far  as  Thornton  was 
concerned,  but  it  fell  on  a  rich  field  in  the  bosom  of  his 
son,  who  sat  in  deep  and  almost  breathless  attention. 

He  had,  with  the  full  approval  of  his  father,  offered 
his  hand  to  the  eldest  surviving  child  of  Thomson ;  and 
he  was  told  that  nothing  lay  across  his  path  to  wedded 
happiness  but  the  unwillingness  she  felt  to  trust  herself 
« to  the  control  of  a  man,  who  might  lead  her  away 
from  her  alleaiance  to  her  Master. 


COTTAGE    PIETY.  Q3 

Ashton  Thornton  was  virtuous,  but  not  religious.  His 
actions  were  usually  governed  by  the  morality  of  the 
scripture ;  but  the  motives  were  derived  from  a  kindly 
nature,  an  ethical  education,  and  favourable  associations. 
These  had  been  as  yet  exposed  to  no  assaults  from 
temptation ;  and  Louisa  knew  enough  of  the  theory  of 
moral  sentiment  to  feel  insecurity  in  the  character 
which  was  not  founded  on  the  stedfast  basis  of  religion. 
Change  of  health  might  alter  his  disposition ;  trials  not 
yet  encountered,  might  subvert  the  effects  of  the  earlier 
discipline  of  the  school ;  and  gay  companions  expose 
him  to  insidious  adulteration.  "  I  love  you,"  she  would 
say,  "  but  I  fear  you.  Two  woful  examples  of  ill-assorted 
marriage  in  our  own  neighbourhood,  leave  me  no  excuse 
for  following  the  desires  of  my  heart.  I  cannot  desert 
my  parents,  and  I  will  not  bring  an  uncongenial  inmate 
under  their  roof"  Argument,  on  his  part,  was  neces- 
sarily vain.  The  habitual  rational  principle  of  action 
sustained  Louisa ;  and  he  had  only  the  usual  sophisms 
of  self  indulgence  to  plead  for  him.  It  was  impossible, 
too,  for  one  so  open  and  artless,  to  conceal  from  her  his 
respect  for  the  lofty  principle  of  her  conduct ;  and  in 
the  very  promises  he  made  to  endeavour  to  qualify  him- 
self for  her  religious  prejudices,  as  he  called  them,  he 
conceded  the  whole  argument,  or  he  demonstrated 
practically  the  insecurity  of  his  own  position. 

Earthly  passions  often  lead  to  heavenly  dispositions. 
"  The  wrath  of  man  shall  praise  Him."  The  love  for 
Louisa  led  Ashton  to  cJiurch  ;  for  he  could  not  bear  her 
absence.  It  brought  him  also  into  frequent  contact 
with  old  Thomson  and  his  wife,  in  whose  agreeable 
society  he  usually  spent  his  evenings.  There  is  much 
in  a  moral  atmosphere.   It  is  like  the  natural  air,  rather 


84  COTTAGE    PIETY. 

felt  than  seen ;  and  we  are  most  inclined  to  face  it  when 
it  is  in  gentle  and  graceful  motion.  It  is  for  this  rea- 
son that,  in  the  course  of  years,  a  kind,  persuasive 
preacher,  gathers  the  richest  products  of  the  labours  of 
love.  Ashton  soon  acquired  a  taste  for  the  church,  and 
a  love  for  the  old  folks ;  and,  when  Louisa  paid  a  visit 
of  some  length  to  a  distant  friend,  he  continued  his  at- 
tendance on  the  one,  and  his  visits  to  the  other. 

The  sudden  death  of  Louisa's  only  sister,  which  oc- 
curred during  her  absence,  left  a  deep  impression  on 
Ashton's  mind. — The  poor  child,  not  quite  fifteen,  full 
of  buoyancy  and  health,  was  cut  off  in  the  short  space 
of  three  days.  But  though  her  death  was  sudden,  it 
was  not  unprepared  for ;  and  she  put  off  on  the  stream 
of  eternity,  from  the  rich  and  flowery  shore  of  young 
life,  with  a  reluctance  produced  solely  by  the  parting 
with  her  parents  and  sister. 

While  sick,  she  took  Ashton's  hand  in  hers,  and  said, 
"  I  had,  among  the  pleasures  of  life,  promised  to  myself 
the  happiness  of  calling  you  brother.  How  much,  dear 
Ashton,  that  pleasure  would  have  been  enhanced  by 
the  assurance,  in  the  very  name,  that  you,  whom  we 
all  love  so  much,  were  a  brother,  not  for  time  only,  but 
for  eternity.  How  little  they  know  of  affection,  who 
confine  it  to  earth  !  Who  can  bear  to  love  what  they 
must  some  day  part  with  for  ever  ]  That  thought 
would  embitter  any  true  affection. 

*  Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be. 
The  tears  of  love  were  liopeless  but  for  thee.' 

Can  you,  Ashton,  nourish  love,  without  cultivating  the 
means  of  its  perpetuation  ]  Although  tliere  is  no  mar- 
riage in  heaven,  we  can  scarcely  doubt  the  existence 


COTTAGE    PIETY.  95 

there  of  love ;  and  as  Dives  knew  Lazarus,  may  we  not 
believe  that  holier  spirits  will  be  as  much  gifted  with 
powers  of  recognition,  and  that  the  friendships  will  be 
a  rich  part  of  the  joys  of  eternity.  Louisa  loves  you, 
Ashton ;  and  if  you  knew  the  depth  and  fervour,  the 
singleness  and  purity  of  her  affections,  you  would  place 
them  far  above  all  earthly  value.  They  are  worth  the 
labour  and  the  sacrifice  of  a  life ;  but  the  effort  you 
must  make  to  possess  her  is  one  to  ennoble  yourself, 
and  to  give  you  peace  on  earth  and  a  crown  of  glory  in 
heaven.  I  know  that  my  death  will  be  a  severe  shock 
to  Louisa,  and  that  she  will  deeply  deplore  the  loss  of 
my  society ;  but  if  I  could  promise  to  myself  that  you 
would  soon  supply  my  place  in  her  counsels  and  her 
affections,  I  would  have  one  pang  less  at  parting.  May 
I  not  hope  for  such  a  consummation  ?  Pray,  do  dear 
Ashton,  pray  to  God  for  skill  and  persistency  in  the  ways 
of  well-doing,  and  you  will  assuredly  receive  both." 

The  eloquence  of  look,  tone  and  spirit,  gave  an 
almost  unearthly  force  to  the  sentiments  of  the  dying 
girl ;  and  Ashton  resolved  to  conquer  his  repugnance 
to  the  open  avowal  of  tiie  religious  sentiments  which 
were  rapidly  occupying  his  bosom. 

When  old  Thomson  had  finished  the  discourse  to 
Ashton's  father  on  the  consolations  deducible  fi'om  a 
confiding  faith,  the  latter  rose  to  depart ;  but  what  was 
his  surprise  when  his  son,  with  eyes  swimming  in  tears, 
begged  him  for  a  moment's  delay,  and  turning  to  Thom- 
son, desired  him  to  assist  the  painful  struggles  of  his 
soul,  by  a  prayer  for  a  clearer  faith,  and  a  more  abiding 
sense  of  the  goodness  of  God — for  obedience,  humility 
and  love.  The  acquiescence  of  Thomson  was  instant 
and  fervent;  and  Ashton  rose  from  his  kneeling  pos- 
ture a  resolute,  uncompromising  Christian. 


g@  COTTAGE    PIETY. 

Louisa,  who  had  been  advised  of  her  sister's  illness, 
returned  on  the  following  day  to  the  mournful  home  of 
her  father.  Her  grief,  on  the  sudden  announcement  of 
her  sister's  death,  was  terrible.  Nature  overpowered 
reason,  and  it  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  call 
to  her  aid  the  unfailing  power  of  religious  consolation. 
But  that  comfort  came  at  last,  and  with  it  the  agreeable 
discovery  that  Mary's  dying  prayers  for  Ashton's  con- 
version had  been  productive  to  him  of  a  blessing,  for 
which  she  would  herself  have  been  almost  willing  to 
die. 

Misfortunes,  like  stars,  are  clustered  into  constella- 
tions. Bitterly  did  poor  old  Thomson  feel  the  truth  of 
this  observation.  Hard  on  the  death  of  Mary  followed 
a  rapid  succession  of  pecuniary  misfortunes.  His  crop 
was  destroyed  by  lightning,  his  cattle  died  of  the  mur- 
rain, his  favourite  horse  broke  his  little  carriage  to 
pieces,  and  severely  injured  his  leg.  To  crown  all,  his 
farm  was  taken  away  from  him,  through  a  technical 
informality  in  the  title ;  and  he  who  had  conveyed  it  to 
him,  having  become  a  bankrupt,  could  not  restore  the 
purchase  money. 

Old  Thornton  attentively  watched  the  effect,  on  the 
mind  of  his  friend,  of  these  gradually  increasing  blows; 
but  the  spirit  of  the  old  Christian  only  seemed  to  rise 
witli  his  emergencies.  At  length  the  time  arrived  for 
leaving  the  shelter  of  the  beautiful  cottage,  which  had 
been  the  scene  of  many  pleasant  and  many  painful 
events.  The  whole  incidents  of  half  a  century  were 
connected  with  that  home ;  and  they  were  to  leave  it 
for  ever !  But  the  old  man  said,  as  he  had  often  said 
before,  "  '  Why  should  we  mourn  in  the  days  of  evil  ?' 
The  richest  part  of  our  possession,  the  only  imperish- 
able part,  is  left  to  us;   and  trusting  in  God,  who 


COTTAGE    PIETY.  gy 

brought  water  out  of  the  unbroken  rock,  and  fed  the 
prophet  by  ravens,  we  will  '  rejoice,  for  great  is  our 
salvation.^  " 

With  less  faith,  and  a  weaker  reason,  that  procession 
would  have  been  as  melancholy  as  sorrow  could  make 
it ;  but  each  had  a  ray  of  consolation,  and  the  affection 
which  delighted  in  reflecting  it  on  the  rest.  Support- 
ing love  is  never  so  forcibly  exerted  as  when  it  demands 
for  its  success  the  whole  stock  of  energy.  It  slumbers 
like  the  electric  fluid,  until  the  excitement  develops  it, 
and  that  which  seemed  to  have  scarcely  an  existence, 
suddenly  leaps  into  almost  irresistible  activity. 

Ashton  Thornton,  who  had  previously  married  Lou- 
isa, had  a  small  farm  and  a  little  cottage  on  a  lease ; 
and  although  just  able  to  pay  his  rent  by  the  exercise 
of  a  rigid  economy,  he  would  not  be  denied  the  privi- 
lege of  sheltering  the  father  and  mother  of  Louisa ;  to 
which,  as  a  temporary  arrangement,  they  consented. 
Ashton,  in  pleading  for  this  favour,  said  he  could  spend 
more  time  in  the  fields,  when  he  knew  that  Louisa  had 
society  at  home ;  and  Louisa  could  pay  more  attention 
to  her  dairy  and  garden,  when  her  mother  was  left  with 
the  baby.  There  were  also  many  little  comforts  which 
could  be  profitably  dispensed  with,  to  obtain  the  great 
one  of  the  society  and  counsel  of  their  parents. 

Love  is  always  an  artful  pleader,  and  when  he 
pleads  to  the  ear  of  love,  seldom  unsuccessful.  The 
family  party  which  is  represented  in  the  prefixed  en- 
graving, is  an  interesting  one.  The  artist  has  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  to  the  group  the  air  of  solemn  satis- 
faction which,  under  every  trial,  kept  its  place  on  the 
face  of  Thomson  and  his  family.  The  alteration  in 
tlie  mind  of  Ashton  respecting  holy  things  is  beautifully 


88  COTTAGE    PIETY. 

exemplified  in  his  manner,  when  rushing  in  to  convey 
some  intelligence  which  he  knew  would  enliven  their 
lowly  abode,  he  is  suddenly  arrested  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  group,  while  the  patriarch  is  invoking  the 
blessing  of  the  Father  of  mercies  on  the  stinted  meal, 
and  praying  for  spiritual  illumination. 

The  trials  of  life  are  not  always  unto  death.  Patience 
had  had  its  perfect  work,  and  the  very  darkness  of  the 
night  showed  the  approach  of  morning. 

"  When  the  well  is  dry 

Then  the  clouds  are  nigh, 
The  heavens  of  earth  must  borrow ; 

And  the  streams  that  stray 

Through  the  waste  to-day, 
Must  sail  above,  to-morrow." 

The  death  of  the  elder  Thornton  improved  the  circum- 
stances of  his  son ;  and  old  Thomson  recovered  a  con- 
siderable sum  by  the  unexpected  discovery  of  documents 
whose  loss  had  been  supposed  irretrievable.  But  as 
tliey  felt  less  than  others  the  descent  into  adversity,  so 
the  sudden  return  of  worldly  prosperity  brought  with 
it  less  than  the  usual  amount  of  elation.  They  were 
on  a  journey,  of  which  these  were  the  adverse  and  fa- 
vourable incidents,  none  of  which  could  either  retard 
or  accelerate  their  progress  to  the  end;  and  they  en- 
countered both,  as  things  of  only  passing  moment.  The 
pride  of  the  stoic,  or  the  vanity  of  the  man  of  the  world, 
may  enable  him  to  conceal  his  sufferings ;  but  the 
Christian  can  look  above  them,  and  find  even  in  his 
sorrows  a  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,  and  which 
the  world  cannot  take  away.  "There  is  a  pleasure 
even  in  the  melancholy  of  a  quiet  conscience." 

Philadelphia. 


89 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  JORDAN. 


BY  REV.  J.  H.  CLINCH. 


I. 

The  hosts  of  God,  by  Joshua  led, 

Approach  the  Jordan's  eddying  tide, 
And  priests,  with  veiled  and  bended  head, 

Bear  to  its  grassy  side 
The  Ark,  beneath  w^hose  cherub  wings 
Are  kept  the  pure  and  precious  things ; — 
Behind,  the  morn  its  radiance  flings 

On  bannered  lance,  and  buckler  bright, 
And  brazen  trump,  whose  music  rings 

To  hail  the  dawning  light. 

II. 

The  flood  before  them  boils  and  leaps 

Along  its  deep  and  rocky  bed. 
But  still  the  moving  column  keeps 

Onward  its  fearless  tread. 
As  though  no  foamy  current  flowed 
Between  it  and  the  blest  abode 
To  which,  by  many  a  thorny  road 

And  desert  plain  its  steps  had  passed. 
And  which  in  morning's  glory  glowed 

Green,  beautiful  and  vast. 
M 


90  THE    PASSAGE    OF    THE    JORDAN. 

III. 

And  now,  the  Levites'  sandalled  feet 

Are  moistened  by  the  river's  edge, 
Which  curls  and  breaks,  with  murmur  sweet, 

Amid  the  bending  sedge ; — 
Yet  pause  they  not ; — with  heart  of  prayer 
And  fliith-supported  strength,  they  bear 
That  which  the  torrent  shall  not  dare 

Submerge  or  mar  with  angry  tide ; 
They  know  not  how,  but  know  that  there 

God  will  a  way  provide. 

IV. 

Their  faith  hath  triinnplied ; — with  the  sound 

Of  rushing  thunder  backward  fly 
The  affrighted  billows,  and  the  ground 

They  moistened  now  is  dry : — 
Cleft  in  the  midst,  the  waters  stand 
Obedient  to  their  God's  command, 
Towering  aloft  on  either  hand 

A  glassy  and  resplendent  heap. 
Where  scenes  that  bless  the  promised  land 

In  mirrored  beauty  sleep. 

V. 

And  fearless  down  the  dark  defile 

The  countless  hosts  of  Israel  go, 
And  loud  from  trump  and  harp  the  while 

The  strains  of  gladness  flow ; — 
The  depths,  that  voices  never  gave 
But  those  of  warring  wind  and  wave, 
Send  from  their  dark  and  oozy  grave 

The  echoing  tread  of  joyous  throngs, 
And  praise  to  Him  whose  hand  can  save, 

In  loud  triumphant  songs. 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  JORDAN.     91 
VI. 

And  now  the  farther  shore  they  gain, 

And  kneeling  kiss  the  promised  spot 
Which,  through  long  years  of  toil  and  pain, 

Their  anxious  steps  had  sought ; 
Whilst  with  a  wild  and  maddening  roar 
The  tides,  disjoined  from  shore  to  shore, 
Their  long  suspended  waters  pour 

To  fill  the  yawning  gulf  between ; 
Closed  is  the  bright,  mysterious  door, 

By  which  they  entered  in. 

VII. 

Christian  !  behold  the  typic  shade 

Of  that  dim  path  prepared  for  thee, — 
Behold  in  Jordan's  tide  displayed 

Death's  ever-flowing  sea : — 
Thou  treadest  still  Life's  desert  plain 
In  toil  and  sorrow,  care  and  pain, — 
Trials,  and  doubts,  and  fears  maintain 

With  thee  a  fierce  and  bitter  strife. 
And  but  for  heavenly  aid  would  gain 

The  conquest  o'er  thy  life. 

VIII. 

Yet  soon  that  toilsome  war  shall  cease, 

And  thou  beside  the  flood  shalt  stand, 
Beyond  whose  waves  are  realms  of  peace — 

A  pure  and  holy  land  : — 
But  if  thou  still  hast  kept  the  Ark 
Of  God  before  thee  as  a  mark, — 
Fear  not  the  troubled  waters  dark 

Howe'er  they  rage,  and  chafe,  and  roar, — 
On  that  mysterious  voyage  embark, 

And  God  will  guide  thee  o'er. 


92  THE    PASSAGE    OF    THE    JORDAN. 

IX. 

Press  boldly  on  in  faith  and  prayer, 

And  waves  of  doubt  and  floods  of  fear 
Shall  part,  and  leave  a  passage  there 

To  changeless  glories  near ; 
The  dim  obscurity  shall  fail 
In  Death's  dark  pass  and  shadowy  vale, 
And  thou,  with  gladdened  eye,  shalt  hail 

Bright  glimpses  of  the  glorious  things 
Which  lie  beyond,  and  render  pale 

The  angels'  flashing  wings. 

X. 

And  when  thou'st  gained  that  blessed  shore, 

For  ever  freed  from  sin  and  pain. 
Death's  cheated  waves  shall  hiss  and  roar 

Mingling  their  streams  again, — 
Thence,  ever  closed,  that  shadowy  door 
Shall  entrance  give  to  Earth  no  more ; 
And  thou  shalt  reach  the  golden  floor. 

By  Jesus  lit  and  angels  trod, 
Ever  and  ever  to  adore 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  God  ! 

Dorchester,  (Mass.) 


93 


A  VISIT  TO  LOCH  LOMOND 

WITH  SUNSET  AMONG  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

BY  REV.  JOHN  S.  STONE. 

At  length  we  found  ourselves  in  Scotland;  and, 
what  is  more,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  magic  High- 
lands. The  wild  pass  of  the  Trosachs,  and  the  classic 
beauties  of  Loch  Katrine  had  been  left  behind,  and  we 
were  ready  to  set  forward  on  our  visit  to  the  chief  of 
the  Scottish  lakes.  It  was  midsummer,  and  as  lovely 
a  day  as  ever  spread  itself  over  the  earth.  It  might 
have  been  sultry,  dusty,  comfortless,  in  more  southern 
latitudes ;  but  around  us  there  was  just  that  clear  and 
deep  blue  air,  just  that  soft  and  balmy  temperature, 
which  give  a  sense  of  perfect  luxury,  and  amidst  which 
one  feels  as  though  he  should  like  to  live  for  ever. 

We  set  forwards  on  donkeys,  the  road  from  Loch 
Katrine  not  admitting  the  use  of  carriages.  The  path 
lies  through  a  desolate  region ;  mountains  on  all  sides, 
with  scarcely  an  inch  of  cultivable  land  from  lake  to 
lake.  It  was  about  the  middle  of  a  long  Scotch  after- 
noon when  we  left  Stronclachaig,  the  name  of  the  hut 
on  the  bank  of  Loch  Katrine ;  (among  the  Highlands 
they  give  sounding  names  not  only  to  towns  and  villages, 
but  even  to  single  huts,)  and  when,  with  our  donkeys 
and  guide,  we  started  westward  for  the  banks  of  Loch 
Lomond.     The  inhabitants  whom  we  met  on  the  way 


94  A    VISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 

appeared  much  as  they  must  have  done  ages  ago,  ex- 
cept so  far  as  poverty  may  have  broken  their  spirit,  and 
suffering-  may  have  thinned  their  numbers.  They  were 
herdsmen  and  rude  mountaineers,  Gaelic  in  their  lan- 
guage, and  clannish  in  their  habits.  A  few  of  them, 
I  who  happen  to  have  fallen  on  some  little  spot  of  soil, 
some  miniature  Arabia  Felix  often  rods  square,  amidst 
the  surrounding  desert  of  leafless  slopes  and  verdure- 
less  mountains,  have  patches  of  cultivation  round  their 
dwellings,  though  their  cultivation  is  of  the  rudest 
kind,  and  their  vegetable  products  few  and  simple.  In 
summer,  they  may  live  here  in  tolerable  comfort.  The 
fish  of  the  streams,  the  game  from  the  mountains,  the 
flesh  from  their  own  upland  herds,  and  the  scanty 
vegetable  products  of  their  gardens,  furnish  a  plain  and 
homely  fare,  sufficient  for  the  hardy  and  abstemious 
frames  of  these  sons  and  daughters  of  the  hills.  But 
in  winter,  one  can  hardly  conjecture  whence  they  pro- 
cure the  means  of  life  and  warmth.  Such  tracts  of 
country  lying  wide  and  waste,  in  silent,  solemn  gran- 
deur, look  drear  to  the  passenger  from  the  beautiful 
and  abounding  Lowlands.  But  the  enlightened  eye 
sees  that  they  are  not  useless  in  the  economy  of  the 
Creator's  works.  Purifiers  of  the  air ;  nurseries  of 
freedom — her  refuge  too;  silent  teachers  of  the  great- 
ness, the  majesty,  and  the  power  of  God ;  archetypes 
of  grand  ideas,  and  sources  of  a  taste  for  the  sublime  in 
man ;  loved,  moreover,  by  the  wild  mountaineer,  as  the 
scene  of  his  childhood,  the  only  place  in  creation  where 
nature  looks  natural,  and  where  the  familiar  forms  of 
all  things  about  him  whisper  into  his  attentive  ear  the 
sacred  language,  and  breathe  into  his  thrilled  heart  the 
holy  feelings,  of  Home  !     I  greet  the  mountains  and 


A   VISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 


95 


the  valleys,  their  brawling  streams  and  their  tangled 
passes.    God  has  fixed  their  forms  and  positions  aright; 
and  a  costly  exchange  would  be  made  if  they  were  to 
be  displaced  by  the  fair  and  fertile  levels  of  cultivation. 
About  midway  between  the  two  principal  lakes,  we 
passed,  on  the  left  hand.  Loch  Arklet,  one  of  those  nu- 
merous and  beautiful  little  water-sheets  which  inter- 
sperse  these  rocky  realms,  and  mother  of  the  Arkill,  a 
small  stream,  along  the  banks  of  which  we  rode  the 
rest  of  our  way  to  old  Lomond.     Near  Arklet,  we  had 
the  honour  of  seeing  the  real  Rob  Roy's  fowling-  piece, 
a  relic  which  has  descended  from  its  original  owner  to 
the  fourth  generation,  and  is  now  in  the  hands  of  some- 
thing like  a  twentieth  female  cousin,  and  lodged,  in  its 
venerable  rust,  within  one  of  the  turf  roofed  huts  that 
here  and  there  skirt  the  dreary  way.     At  the  request 
of  our  guide,  the  ancient  dame  brought  it  forth  from  its 
place  of  deposit,  and  exhibited  it  with  a  very  becoming 
air  of  importance.     Its  lock  is  quite  perfect ;  though  it 
should  be  stated  in  explanation,  that  this  has  been  added 
since  the  piece  was  last  in  the  hands  of  the  famous 
levier  of  "blackmail;"  as  is  probably  the  case  with 
sundry  other  parts  of  this  precious  relic,  such  as  the 
stock,  the  barrel,  and  the  rammer.    I  gave  its  honoured 
possessor  the  customary  gratuity  for  showing  it ;  con- 
vinced that  if  she  did  not  thus  obtain  money  by  the 
voluntary  contribution  of  passengers,  she  would  never 
have  any  of  this  important  material  at  her  disposal. 

The  approach  to  Loch  Lomond  from  this  point  is 
truly  grand.  The  mountains  on  the  opposite  shore  rise 
nobly  on  the  view  of  the  approaching  traveller.  Before 
making  the  descent  to  the  lake,  we  passed  an  interest- 
ing  spot.     Over  the  roaring  Arkill  is  thrown  a  rustic 


96  AVISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 

bridge,  leading  to  Inversnaid  mill  and  cottage  on  the 
left ;  while,  on  the  right,  rise  the  ruins  of  Old  Inver- 
snaid Fort,  a  garrison  once  occupied  by  the  celebrated 
General  Wolfe.  It  was  built  in  earlier  times,  to  re- 
press the  daring  and  predatory  spirit  of  Rob  Roy 
McGregor;  though  it  was  once  burnt  by  him,  and 
afterwards  taken  for  awhile  and  held  by  his  nephew. 
The  region  around  it  was  the  domain  of  the  clan 
McGregor.  Rob  was  not  such  a  mere  bandit  as  is 
sometimes  supposed.  He  was  gently  born,  the  second 
son  of  Colonel  McGregor,  of  Glengyle.  Inversnaid 
was  his  patrimonial  estate ;  but,  having  forfeited  it  to 
the  ancestor  of  the  present  Duke  of  Montrose,  and 
being  by  him  forcibly  though  lawfully  ejected  from  it, 
he  abandoned  himself  to  a  sort  of  bandit  life,  annoying 
the  country  by  levying  "blackmail"  on  the  cattle 
driven  from  these  mountains  to  the  lowland  markets. 
"  Blackmail"  was  a  tax  illegally  exacted  of  the  drover 
by  the  most  powerful  bandit  chief,  as  a  purchase  from 
him  of  security  against  other  and  inferior  depredators. 
The  spirit  of  the  transaction  was — "  Allow  me  to  pillage 
you  moderately,  and  I  will  see  that  weaker  robbers  do 
not  pillage  you  without  mercy." 

The  descent  to  Loch  Lomond  is  long  and  almost 
precipitously  steep,  but  is  rendered  quite  pleasant  by 
being  made  amidst  a  young  growth  of  green  forest- 
wood.  Just  before  reaching  the  lake,  the  Arkill  tum- 
bles in  foam,  and  with  a  wild  though  not  powerful  roar, 
over  the  precipice,  and  is  speedily  lost  in  the  dark,  deep 
waters  below.  At  the  foot  of  this  cascade  appears  the 
hut  of  the  fisherman  and  boatman,  on  whom  the  travel- 
ler depends  for  his  passage  across  the  lake,  unless  he 
happen  to  arrive  in  season  for  the  steamer,  which  plies 


AVISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND.  97 

on  its  waters,  and  touches  at  this  most  sweetly  romantic 
spot.  After  lingering  a  few  minutes  among  its  refresh- 
ingly cool  grots  and  shades,  and  amidst  the  music  of  its 
waterfall,  we  took  a  hoat  to  Tarbet,  a  beautiful  inn  and 
hamlet  on  the  western,  and  opposite  shore,  about  five 
miles  south  of  Inversnaid.  On  entering  the  boat,  we 
came  near  meeting  with  an  adventure.  The  boatman, 
who  was  to  set  us  across  the  almost  bottomless  waters, 
was  in  a  drunken  frolic.  We  objected,  therefore,  to 
the  exercise  of  his  office  as  our  ferryman,  especially  as 
we  saw,  standing  near,  another  stalwart  and  sober 
Scotchman,  who,  though  not  owner  of  the  boat,  was 
ready  to  do  us  service.  On  learning,  after  some  diffi- 
culty, the  ground  of  our  objection,  the  boatman  showed 
strong  symptoms  of  Highland  wrath.  But  his  wife, 
evidently  the  more  powerful  of  the  pair,  beckoned  to 
him,  and,  with  a  few  words  of  noisy  Gaelic,  succeeded 
in  commanding  him  back  from  the  boat  to  the  hut. 
As  he  left,  however,  he  cast  on  me  a  lowering  look, 
and  threw  at  me  a  muttering  word,  his  whole  demean- 
our seeming  to  say,  "There  have  been  days  among 
these  rocks  and  shades,  when  no  Highlander  would 
have  brooked  such  an  imputation  on  his  boatmanship." 
Having  left  Stronclachaig  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  it  was,  of  course,  drawing  towards  sunset, 
when  we  launched  from  the  cascade  of  Arkill  upon  the 
dark  bosom  of  Loch  Lomond.  The  place  of  our  desti- 
nation for  the  night  was  Rowardennan,  on  the  same 
shore  of  the  lake  with  Inversnaid.  In  reaching  it, 
however,  we  were  obliged  to  take  Tarbet  on  our  way, 
though  on  the  opposite  side.  This  twice  crossing  of 
the  lake  is  rendered  necessary  by  the  fact  that  no  High- 
lander will  row  from  Inversnaid  to  Rowardennan.    We 


98  AVISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 

tried,  but  in  vain,  to  induce  our  boatman  to  proceed 
directly  from  the  one  place  to  the  other.  These  Scotch 
watermen  are  somewhat  like  the  horses  on  an  English 
stage  course.  Each  has  his  distance  to  run,  and  having 
run  it,  will  not  stir  another  step.  Either  obstinacy,  or 
the  punctilio  observed  among  them,  keeps  each  within 
the  limits  of  his  course.  But,  whether  obstinacy  or 
punctilio,  we  were  glad  for  once  that  the  boatman  had 
his  own  way;  for,  as  the  lake  here  makes  a  sweep 
round  the  western  base  of  Ben-Lomond,  the  distance 
from  Inversnaid  to  Rowardennan  is  but  little  increased 
by  taking  Tarbet  in  the  way ;  while  Tarbet  itself  is 
one  of  the  stillest,  sweetest  spots  of  Highland  beauty, 
on  which  it  is  possible  to  lay  the  eye.  It  lies  on  the 
margin  of  the  lake,  occupying  a  bosom  of  land,  round 
which  the  tall,  steep  and  rugged  mountains  retreat, 
leaving  a  few  acres  of  delightfully  green  and  fertile 
earth,  sheltered  on  every  side,  save  that  of  the  lake,  by 
lofty  natural  walls,  and  improved  by  the  hand  of  art 
with  exquisite  shrubbery,  and  every  other  ornament 
appropriate  to  the  scene.  The  inn  and  all  its  accom- 
modations were  in  charming  taste,  and  the  provisions 
made  for  the  traveller's  comfort  and  luxury  sucli  as  you 
would  find  in  the  best  ordered  village  in  England.  No 
contrast  could  well  be  greater  than  that  between  the 
commencement  and  the  close  of  this  first  part  of  our 
little  voyage — taking  us  from  naked  rocks  washed  bare 
by  the  incessant  tumbling  of  the  cascade,  and  from  a 
rude  hut  and  drunken  boatman,  to  one  of  the  greenest, 
freshest  spots  imaginable,  in  the  midst  of  which  smiled 
all  the  refinements  of  taste  and  luxury. 

As  we  left  Tarbet,  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  dip 
behind  the  lofty  summits  of  the  mountains  that  lie  back 


AVISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND.  99 

of  the  inn,  and  along  the  whole  western  shore  of  the  lake, 
Ben-Duchray,  the  western  Ben-Voirlich,  Ben-Arthur, 
and  all  the  other  Bens  in  this  region  of  the  Grampians. 
The  boat  in  which  we  found  ourselves  seated,  unlike 
the  clumsy  affair  which  bore  us  from  Inversnaid,  was  a 
tasteful  shallop,  neatly  painted  and  fitted,  as  graceful 
in  its  shape  and  pattern,  and  as  nimble  in  its  bounding 
over  the  waves,  as  could  have  been  found  on  the  classic 
Cam,  or  on  the  wealthy  Thames.  For  awhile,  as  we 
made  from  the  shore,  the  sun  ceased  his  apparent  going 
down,  and  seemed  to  stay  his  course  among  the  mag- 
nificent summits,  till,  as  we  changed  our  direction  and 
stood  down  the  lake  for  Rowardennan,  he  slowly  de- 
scended behind  the  western  battlements  of  Scotland. 
The  heavens  were  clear,  without  a  cloud  or  a  vapour ; 
the  atmosphere  was  still  without  a  breeze  or  a  breath ; 
the  waters  were  mirror-like,  without  a  swell  or  a  ripple ; 
and  the  shadows  of  the  mountains,  as  the  sun  went 
down,  lay  in  black,  heavy  and  growing  masses  along 
the  western  margin,  and  upon  the  western  waters,  of 
the  lake.  The  temperature  of  the  air  was  mildness  and 
balminess  itself;  and,  as  our  intelligent  and  cheerful 
bargeman  pulled  lustily  towards  Rowardennan,  as  it  lay 
in  the  calm  and  silent  distance,  our  gentle  motion 
through  the  air,  cooled  by  the  soft,  pure  waters  over 
which  we  floated,  gave  a  luxuriousness  to  the  scene 
which  nothing  could  exceed.  On  our  left,  coming  down 
to  the  very  brink  of  the  lake,  and  occupying  almost  the 
whole  of  the  eastern  horizon,  towered,  thousands  of  feet 
towards  heaven,  Ben-Lomond,  the  tallest  of  this  noble 
cluster  of  summits.  On  our  right,  swelling  with  almost 
equal  abruptness  from  the  water,  and  arising  to  an 
almost  equal  height,  the  westerri  range  piled  up  his 


100  A   VISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 

almost  numberless  pinnacles,  which  run  in  a  broken 
and  ragged  outline,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  along 
the  borders  of  the  lake.  Between  these  eastern  and 
western  barriers  lay  old  Lomond  itself,  thirty  miles  in 
length,  broad  at  its  foot,  but  here  already  contracted 
to  a  mile  in  width,  and  tapering  away  towards  its  head 
at  the  north,  where  the  mountains  crowd  closer  and 
closer  together,  till  finally  they  seem  to  join  their  inner 
faces,  and  the  narrow  sheet  vanishes  amidst  their  dim 
and  distant  windings.  This  confined  position  of  the 
lake,  together  with  its  immense  depth,  soundings  having 
been  made  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  fathoms,  or  seven 
hundred  and  twenty  feet,  gives  its  waters,  though  per- 
fectly clear  and  pure,  their  peculiarly  dark  and  itiky 
hue,  and  increases  much  the  solemn  effect  of  the  whole 
scenery. 

The  hour  providentially  chosen  for  the  passage  was 
most  favourable.  It  was  the  close  of  the  day,  when 
all  is  still  and  disposed  to  quiet.  And  it  was  at  the 
termination  of  a  series  of  views,  beginning  with  the 
morning  at  the  eastern  entrance  to  the  Highlands,  and 
rising,  each  in  interest  above  its  predecessor,  till  the 
last  swelled  into  a  natural  climax,  filling  and  dilating 
the  mind  almost  to  the  breadth  of  its  capacities,  and 
spreading  through  it  a  sense  of  vast  satisfaction,  not  so 
much  with  itself  as  with  its  Creator  and  his  noble 
works.  Here  was  luxury  indeed ;  not  the  luxury  of 
art — not  that  which  cloys — not  that  which  leaves  be- 
hind a  jaded  sense,  a  palled  appetite,  and  a  torturing 
conscience ;  but  the  luxury  of  nature — that  whicli  never 
satiates — that  which  leaves  the  healthful  taste  longing 
for  more — that  which  gives  the  mind  a  moral  food,  and 
makes  the  heart  better. 


A    VISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND.  JQl 

But,  what  finished  the  picture,  which  I  have  endea- 
voured faintly  to  sketch — that,  without  which  the  mag- 
nificent whole,  however  grand  in  itself,  would  have  been 
comparatively  tame — was  the  gorgeously  sublime  and 
touchingly  solemn  efl^ect  of  Sunset  among  these  High- 
land peaks.  As  we  swept  along  the  glassy  surface  of  the 
dark  waters,  we  saw,  on  turning  our  eyes  to  the  north 
and  looking  away  into  the  narrow  and  endless  recess, 
headland  behind  headland  running  down  from  the  tall 
western  mountains  into  the  lake,  like  enormous  but- 
tresses propping  the  battlements  of  a  mighty  castle,  and 
leaving  opening  after  opening  through  the  split  sum- 
mits, which  threw  themselves  up  in  all  imaginable 
forms,  and  among  which  Ben- Arthur,  with  his  "cob- 
bler" shaped  pinnacle,  rose  away  into  the  heavens  in 
all  his  wild  raggedness  and  grandeur.  To  sit  thus, 
and  look  upon  these  noble  mountain  forms ;  upon  the 
soft,  the  rich,  the  almost  holy  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
as  it  tinged  their  summits,  and  poured  its  flood  through 
their  openings,  as  if  in  molten  gold,  upon  the  lake ; 
to  look  upon  the  bold  and  fantastic  outlines  of  their 
ridges,  standing  out  in  luminous  relief  against  the  glo- 
rious evening  sky ;  upon  the  deep  and  widening  masses 
of  shade,  cast  by  the  mountains  upon  the  edge  of  the 
lake,  and  seen  in  dark  contrast  with  alternate  floods  of 
golden  light;  and  upon  the  still  sleeping  of  these  almost 
fathomless  waters,  containing,  like  a  deep  mind  in  its 
stillest  mood,  all  their  mystic  treasures  and  all  their 
resistless  power ; — to  sit  thus,  and  look  upon  this  splen- 
did conflict  between  departing  day  and  coming  night, 
upon  this  gorgeous  gilding  of  creation,  as  if  in  pro- 
mise that  the  coming  day  should  be  as  beautiful  as  the 
past,  was  to  live  amidst  a  scene  indescribably  grand, 


102  A    VISIT    TO    LOCH    LOMOND. 

and  to  feel  the  impossibility,  to  a  serious  mind,  of  con- 
templating its  still,  and  deep,  and  solemn  pathos,  with- 
out correspondingly  still,  and  deep,  and  solemn  emo- 
tions. Our  thoughts,  amidst  the  silence  of  the  passage, 
went  irresistibly  up  to  heaven,  and  busied  themselves 
amidst  the  wonders  of  that  world,  where  more  glorious 
heights  arise,  where  a  more  glorious  light  shineth, 
where  more  mysterious  depths  spread  themselves  be- 
neath the  mind,  and  where  all  tokens  of  God's  presence 
give  place  to  the  infinite  reality  itself.  There  our 
thoughts  dwelt  the  while  in  calm  delight.  It  was  a 
fitting  hour  for  realizations  in  heaven ;  and  into  one  of 
those  realizations  the  dealings  of  our  heavenly  Father 
enabled  our  minds  to  pass  with  an  extremely  facile 
transition.  The  day,  which  removed  from  us  an  object 
perhaps  too  dearly  loved,  was  still  too  fresh  in  our  memo- 
ries to  allow  of  so  near  an  approach  in  spirit  without 
finding  ourselves  once  more  in  her  presence,  listening 
once  more  to  the  prattle  of  her  childish  affection,  and 
feeling  once  more  the  warm  breathings  of  her  infant  love. 
It  was  perhaps  a  selfish  luxury,  amidst  the  scenes  of  a 
heavenly  feast;  but  we  had  not  power  to  deny  our- 
selves. The  parental  sentiment  subdued  our  souls,  and 
opened  anew  the  deepest  fountains  of  our  feelings. 

We  reached  the  place  of  our  destination  at  nine 
o'clock ;  a  powerful  twilight  still  remaining,  and  show- 
ing us  still  some  of  the  lingering  glories  of  a  scene, 
and  of  a  day,  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Boston,  (Mass.) 


103 


THE  BRAHMIN  SUICIDE. 


BY  WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN. 

On  the  way,  seeing  a  number  of  natives  passing  them  hastily,  and 
inquiring  the  cause,  they  were  told  that  a  Brahmin  had  drowned 
himself  under  the  pressure  of  pain ;  upon  which  they  took  occasion 
to  point  out  the  wretched  condition  of  their  guides,  and  exhorted 
them  to  seek  the  grace  and  peace  of  God  in  their  hearts,  which  would 
enable  them  patiently  to  endure  calamities.  Some  of  them  insinu- 
ated that  God  had  predestinated  the  Brahmin  to  his  miserable  end ; 
but  the  missionaries  testified  that  God  was  not  the  author  of  evil, 
but  was  a  lover  of  our  temporal  and  eternal  happiness. — Memoirs  of 
Rev.  C.  F.  Sicartz. 


Beautiful  are  the  feet  that  stand, 

Of  heralds  on  the  heathen  land ! 

Beautiful  on  the  distant  mountains, 

And  by  cool  and  gushing  fountains ; 

Beautiful  by  the  river's  side, 

Where  heaves  the  idol  dome  in  pride, 

Where  is  stretch'd  the  Suicide ! 

Beautiful  is  Humility 

Speaking  'neath  the  banyan  tree, 

Warning  the  aged  devotee; 

Telling  the  young  of  a  Shepherd  nigh, 

Whose  arms  are  safe,  w^hose  fold  is  high ; 

Telling  the  poor  of  pearls  and  gems 

Seen  not  in  Earth's  diadems ; 

Telling  adorers  of  the  river. 

Many  floods  can  ne'er  deliver — 


104  THE    BRAHMIN    SUICIDE. 

Gunga  cannot  save  tlie  soul, 
Jordan  only  maketli  whole. 
Telling  to  him  who  painfully  goes 
On  pilgrimage,  that  fleshly  woes 
Ne'er  atone  for  precept  broke — 
Ne'er  release  from  Error's  yoke. 
O,  beyond  all  worldly  treasure, 
O,  beyond  all  worldly  pleasure, 
Is  an  errand  such  as  this — 
Is  the  Missionary's  bliss  ! 
Heaven's  highest  seat  is  found 
For  him  who  toils  on  heathen  ground ! 

And  who  is  he  on  the  Indian  sands, 
That  like  a  heavenly  teacher  stands  1 
Near  him  towers  the  Moslem's  mosque. 
And  Paganism's  proud  kiosk. 
O'er  him  blooms  the  scented  lime, 
And  the  noble  trees  of  the  eastern  clime. 
Sheltering  from  the  noon-day  glare — 
And  see !  what  listening  crowds  are  there. 
The  listening  traveller  reins  his  steed. 
The  water-bearer  givetli  heed ; 
Each  seeks  his  face  with  gaze  intense 
As  if,  save  one,  were  locked  each  sense. 
Earnestly  seize  the  old  and  young, 
Words  that  drop  from  the  stranger's  tongue. 

And  who  is  he,  of  the  lifeless  form. 
With  drooping  limbs  and  blood  yet  warm  } 
They've  rais'd  him  from  the  river's  bed — 
The  water-lily  round  his  head — 
The  pulse  all  still,  the  spirit  fled ! 
And  this  is  why  is  told  the  tale 
At  which  the  Hindoo's  cheek  is  pale. 


THE    BRAHMIN    SUICIDE.  105 

'Tis  of  one  who  fed  the  altar's  fire, 
And  walked  around  the  suttee's  pyre, 
And  stood  before  his  god  of  stone, 
Blind  worshipper  of  the  Unknown. 
In  senseless  mysteries  bearing  part, 
Vers'd  in  the  Shaster — not  the  heart. 
Ay,  and  he  felt  a  void  within, 
That  waters  were  bootless  for  his  sin : 
Ay,  and  he  bow'd  beneath  his  pain. 
And  rush'd  uncall'd  to  God  again ! — 
What  hell  can  burn  away  that  stain "? 

Beautiful  now  are  the  feet  of  him 
Who  comes  with  voice  of  the  seraphim. 
Standing  and  telling  of  a  balm  for  woes — 
A  fount  for  the  leper,  that  ever  flows : 
A  gilead  and  Physician  too, 
Which  Paganism  never  knew. 
And  teaching  that  relentless  Fate 
Doth  not  on  hapless  mortals  wait. 

Oh,  God  is  not  author  of  evil — his  love 
Share  the  dwellers  below  and  the  happy  above ! 
Sweeter  than  breezes  of  the  south. 
Is  pity  from  the  teacher's  mouth; 
Sweeter  than  music  of  the  spheres 
Which  the  errand  angel  hears. 
Are  tidings  that  fall  on  the  Pagan's  ears ! 
And  he  will  hear,  and  the  heart  will  melt, 
And  the  knee  shall  be  Christ's  which  to  devils  has  knelt. 
And  meekness  he'll  learn  from  this  deed  of  pride, 
And  life  from  the  Brahmin  Suicide  ! 

Philadelphia,  1837. 


106 


THE   SPRING    BIRD. 

BY  REV.  M.  A.  d'w.  HOWE. 

They  who  dwell  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Massachusetts  know  how 
sadness  steals  over  the  sensitive  during  the  vernal  rains,  accompanied 
as  they  always  are  by  chilling  easterly  winds.  On  one  of  the  most 
ungenial  days  of  this  ungenial  season,  the  writer  felt  his  ennui  justly 
rebuked  by  a  bird  of  gayer  note,  and  more  placid  temperament  than 
he  possesses. 

When  fancied  woes  my  heart  oppress, 
And  joy  my  pensive  thoughts  disown, 

No  songs  dispel  my  wretchedness ; 

Scarce  grief  refrains  its  plaintive  moan. 

Yet  thou,  sweet  Bird,  when  storms  invade, 
And  tempests  fill  the  frowning  sky, 

Canst  shake  the  rain-drops  from  thy  head, 
And  chaunt  thy  clieerful  minstrelsy  ! 

Though  clouds  with  teeming  torrents  lower. 

The  sun  his  beams  reluctant  hide. 
Thine  eye  paints  verdure  on  each  bower. 

And  hope  creates  a  summer-tide. 

Sweet  songster !  pour  thy  note  of  glee ; 

Faith  shall  dispel  my  spirit's  gloom — 
Unseal  my  eyes, — and  bid  them  see 

A  clime,  where  flowers  perennial  bloom  I 

Roxbury,  (Mass.) 


107 


FANNY  MORELAND; 


OR, 


USE    AND    ABUSE    OF    THE    RISIBLE  S. 
BY  MISS  CATHERINK  E.  BEECHER. 

There  are  some  very  peculiar  characters  in  the 
world,  who  seem  to  carry  with  them  and  around  them 
an  atmosphere  of  fun.  Wherever  they  go,  something 
amusing  is  sure  to  occur.  Never  any  thing  ludicrous  can 
happen  for  miles  around,  but  they  are  sure  to  be  there. 
While  thousands  of  others  can  go  the  same  road,  and 
visit  the  same  places,  year  after  year,  and  never  a  thing 
occurs  to  start  even  a  smile, — no  sooner  do  these  favour- 
ites of  Momus  appear,  than  man  and  beast,  nature  and 
art,  all  seem  jostled  into  some  new  and  comical  arrange- 
ment for  their  special  edification  and  amusement.  It  is 
true,  that  in  accounting  for  this  peculiarity,  some  assert 
that  such  persons  have  such  a  love  of  humour,  and  such 
a  quick  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  as  enables  them  to 
detect  what  would  escape  less  searching  glances. 
Others  have  insinuated,  that  a  little  elf  of  exaggeration 
always  aids  to  spin  a  web  of  fairy  work  about  their  ad- 
ventures and  rehearsals ;  while  others  maliciously  de- 
clare, that,  bent  on  discovering  what  they  so  much 
love,  when  they  cannot  meet  it  ready  made,  they  scruple 
not  to  secure  it  by  wholesale  manufacture. 


108  FANNY    MORE  LAND. 

Whatever  may  be  the  philosophy  of  the  case,  it  cer- 
tainly is  a  fact  that  there  are  such  persons  in  the  world ; 
and  it  is  just  as  much  a  fact  that  Fanny  Moreland  was 
one  of  their  number.  Fanny  was  not  handsome — she 
was  not  witty — she  was  not  learned — she  was  not  rich 
— nor  was  she  particularly  useful ;  and  yet  she  was  a 
universal  favourite.  Wherever  she  went  she  seemed 
to  carry  sunshine,  and  to  give  a  new  spring-  to  every 
body's  spirits.  She  had  an  airy,  graceful  figure,  a  pretty 
little  hand  and  foot,  quick  and  sprightly  movements ; 
a  stealthy,  roguish  smile,  and  a  perking  sort  of  whisk 
with  her  head,  that  altogether  made  one  think  of  a 
frolicsome  little  kitten.  Fanny  was  always  finding 
something  that  was  "  so  funny,"  that  she  must  run  and 
tell  somebody  of  it ;  and  she  had  such  a  joyous  and 
comical  way  of  rehearsing  the  matter,  that  the  listener 
was  half  done  laughing  before  she  had  half  finished  the 
story.  Had  it  not  been  that  Fanny  possessed  an  un- 
usual share  of  good  common  sense,  she  certainly  would 
have  been  spoiled ;  for  never  were  parents  so  at  their 
wit's  end  to  know  what  to  do  with  a  creature,  as  were 
hers.  It  was  impossible  for  them  to  reprove  her  as 
they  did  their  other  children.  She  always  had  some 
such  comical  apology,  or  such  a  laughable  way  of  ac- 
knowledging her  faults,  and  was  so  really  amiable  and 
unwilling  to  ofl^end,  that  no  one  could  look  her  in  the 
face,  and  feel  displeased  long  enough  to  administer  a 
serious  reproof 

Her  sports  and  pranks  at  school,  as  well  as  at  home, 
were  without  number,  for  her  invention  was  endless, 
and  her  activity  untiring.  But  too  kind  in  heart  ever 
intentionally  to  wound  the  feelings  of  others,  and  pro- 
fessing a  native  refinement  that  saved  her  from  hoiden- 


FANNY    MORELAND.  IQQ 

isms,  though  she  often  interfered  with  the  order  both  of 
the  family  and  the  school,  she  was  oftener  let  off  with 
smiles  than  with  frowns.  At  school  she  was  the  uni- 
versal favourite,  the  leader  in  all  sports,  the  plotter  of 
all  tricks,  the  author  of  many  a  merry  prank ;  and  it 
was  from  her  teacher  she  received  the  compliment  of 
being  "  for  ever  busy  in  doing  nothing,"  and  the  familiar 
appellative  of  Fanny  Frisk. 

Among  their  family  relatives  was  an  uncle  of  Fanny's 
mother,  of  whom  the  elder  children  often  spoke,  but 
whom  Fanny  had  never  seen.  She  had  heard  of  Uncle 
Enoch,  how  good  he  was,  and  how  solemn,  and  how 
strict;  and  when  it  was  rumoured  that  Uncle  Enoch 
was  coming  to  make  them  a  visit,  Fanny  was  often  ad- 
monished after  this  fashion :  "  Well,  Miss  Fan,  when 
Uncle  Enoch  comes,  you  will  not  dare  do  such  tricks 
before  him."  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  Uncle  Enoch 
will  say  to  you  when  he  comes." 

Now  Fanny  had  a  sort  of  intrepid  spirit,  that  was 
rather  stimulated  than  daunted  by  difficulties,  and  she 
generally  listened  to  such  remarks  with  a  sly  sort  of 
a  look,  and  a  twinkle  in  her  eye,  which  showed  that 
she  felt  no  little  curiosity  to  see  this  solemn  uncle,  who 
was  to  frighten  her  into  sobriety ;  and  a  sort  of  suspicion 
that  she  should  somehow  contrive  to  slip  through  his 
fingers,  if  he  should  try  to  take  her  in  hand. 

At  length  the  time  arrived,  and  it  was  announced  to 
Fanny  that  Uncle  Enoch  was  come.  Down  went  her 
little  garden  hoe,  and  in  she  ran.  At  first  she  took  a 
peep  at  him  through  a  long  window  that  opened  into 
the  verandah.  There  sat  Uncle  Enoch — a  long,  lank 
figure — bolt  upright  in  his  chair ;  his  feet  placed  side 
by  side,  in  exactly  parallel  lines ;  his  knees  both  bent 


110  FANNY    MORELAND. 

at  exactly  the  same  angle ;  his  shoulders  square,  and  his 
hands  laid  in  exactly  the  same  position  before  him. 
His  face  was  sallow,  and  strongly  marked ;  his  cheeks 
were  somewhat  sunken;  and  his  mouth  had  that  ap- 
pearance of  compression  that  indicates  firmness  and 
resolution.  Huge  dark,  bushy  eyebrows  hung  from  his 
forehead,  and  his  eyes  were  entirely  concealed  by  a 
pair  of  large,  round,  green  glasses,  with  thick,  black, 
tortoise  rims,  which  added  an  owl-like  expression  to  the 
forbidding  aspect  of  his  other  features.  The  first  glance 
sent  a  solemn  look  across  Fanny's  face,  from  very  sym- 
pathy ;  and  she  turned  oft'  with  a  puzzled  sort  of  look, 
as  if  she  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  approach 
such  a  personage.  Soon,  however,  she  was  seen  gliding 
around  in  the  back  part  of  the  parlour,  where  Uncle 
Enoch  sat  talking,  in  slow  and  solemn  tones,  with  her 
mother.  Fanny  seemed  listening,  and  watching,  and 
peering  about,  like  a  kitten  who  spies  the  house  mastiff, 
and  almost,  but  does  not  quite,  dare  to  venture  on  a 
spring  at  him.  At  length  her  mother  spied  her,  and 
calling  her  up,  presented  her  to  Uncle  Enoch,  as  the 
infant  she  once  brought  to  his  house.  Uncle  Enoch 
looked  at  her  with  a  long,  steady  look,  through  his 
great  green  glasses,  and  then  extended  his  hand  to- 
wards her.  Fanny  slowly  drew  up  to  him  and  gave 
him  her  hand;  and  then,  in  reply  to  his  deliberate 
question  if  she  was  "  pretty  well,"  gave  a  simple 
"  Yes,  sir,"  and  vanished  away.  Soon,  however,  she 
returned  to  the  cliarge,  and  kept  around,  listening 
to  his  remarks,  and  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  his 
seat.  She  remained  silent  through  the  hour  of  tea, 
and  in  the  evening  scarcely  made  a  remark.  At  length, 
however,  her  mother  sent  her  for  the  bootjack  and  slip- 


FANNY    MORELAND.  m 

pers,  and  while  aiding-  in  the  operation,  she  adventured 
one  or  two  sprightly  remarks,  which  she  fancied  made 
the  muscles  move  a  little  towards  a  smile  around  Uncle 
Enoch's  mouth.  She  then  ran  for  her  father's  loose 
gown,  and  with  great  volubility  succeeded  in  per- 
suading him  to  take  off  his  thick  coat,  and  sit  in  the 
easy  chair. 

By  this  time  the  old  gentleman  and  Fanny  were  on 
quite  easy  terms.  Then,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
course,  yet  in  a  roguish  sort  of  way,  she  invited  him  to 
"  take  off  his  great  green  glasses."  It  was  said  in  the 
same  style  as  if  she  had  asked  him  to  take  off  his  great- 
coat and  hat.  At  this  sally  the  muscles  of  Uncle 
Enoch's  face  were  all  relaxed ;  he  turned  and  looked 
down  upon  her  with  a  surprised  and  wondering  look, 
and  yet  with  a  manifest  and  most  benignant  smile. 
Fanny  looked  up  in  his  face  with  one  of  her  most 
comical  glances,  and,  lifting  her  hands  with  a  sort  of 
imploring  air,  she  fairly  pulled  the  glasses  from  his 
face.  Behind  them  appeared  a  pair  of  mild  and  dark, 
yet  kindly  beaming  eyes ;  and  all  his  features  seemed 
so  entirely  changed,  that  Fanny  gave  a  jump  of  real 
joy,  hid  the  glasses  behind  her,  and  ran  ofl*,  declaring 
that  the  wicked  things  should  never  again  hide  her 
from  such  kind  and  pleasant  eyes. 

What  human  being  was  ever  proof  against  the  united 
charms  of  kindness,  flattery,  and  fun!  Fanny  had 
passed  the  Rubicon — had  won  the  day ;  and,  after  this. 
Uncle  Enoch  never  seemed  better  pleased  than  when 
Fanny  was  flitting  about  him.  It  was  all  novelty  to 
him.  Nobody  before  had  ever  dared  to  invade  his  dig- 
nity in  that  style  ;  and,  though  he  seemed  greatly 
puzzled,  and  sometimes  a  little  troubled,  he  certainly 


112  FANNY    MORELAND. 

was  wonderfully  pleased.  It  was  a  most  amusing  sight 
to  witness  Fanny,  skipping"  about  his  path,  or  hanging 
on  his  arm,  chatting  about  any  thing  and  every  thing, 
telling  him  about  this,  that  and  the  other  thing,  and 
seeming  as  comfortable  and  chatty  with  him  as  she 
was  with  every  body  else. 

Uncle  Enoch  did  not  approve  of  levity ;  he  thought 
it  very  wrong  to  indulge  in  idle  laughter.  He  was 
troubled  to  see  his  little  favourite  so  thoughtless  and  so 
forgetful  of  the  solemn  duties  of  religion,  and  of  every 
thing  he  deemed  serious  and  important.  He  would 
often  begin  to  talk  seriously  with  her  about  her  flighti- 
ness,  and  about  her  duties  to  God  and  man ;  but  some- 
how she  would  always  contrive  to  slip  oft' into  something 
else,  so  that  the  old  gentleman  seemed  all  the  time 
puzzled  and  pleased,  anxious  and  delighted,  and  at  the 
end  would  sigh  and  say,  he  "  could  not  make  any  thing 
of  the  child,  and  he  was  afraid  nothing  could,  unless  it 
was  the  grace  of  the  Lord." 

As  time  passed  on,  Fanny  and  Uncle  Enoch  conti- 
nued warm  friends  ;  and,  at  his  earnest  solicitation,  slie 
once  went  to  spend  a  fortnight  in  the  retired  and  primi- 
tive village  where  he  ministered  as  pastor.  Here 
Fanny  found  so  many  odd  contrivances,  so  many  queer 
looking  people,  so  many  new  and  comical  matters  of 
one  sort  and  another,  that  she  was  constantly  amused 
herself,  and  constantly  amusing  all  around ;  though  she 
continued  to  do  it  without  hurting  the  feelings  of  any 
one.  But  the  old  gentleman  seemed  to  grow  more  and 
more  discouraged  at  the  prospect  of  ever  doing  her  any 
good.  And  yet,  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  part 
with  her,  it  was  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  for  the 
whole  day  he  wandered  about  uneasy  and  restless,  as 


FANNY    MORELAND.  113 

if  a  dark  cloud  had  shut  out  the  sunshine  of  life.  But 
it  was  not  the  charm  of  her  society  alone  that  he  felt, 
and  of  which  he  lamented  the  loss.  He  bore  her  on 
his  heart  as  a  wandering  lamb,  far  from  the  fold  of 
safety,  for  whose  eternal  interest  he  trembled,  for  whose 
spiritual  welfare  he  daily  prayed.  And  a  time  came 
when  those  prayers  were  answered — when  that  wild 
and  joyous  spirit,  which  for  years  had  skimmed  like  a 
butterfly  over  the  surface  of  this  world's  charms,  forget- 
ful of  its  glorious  origin,  its  noblest  capacities,  its  im- 
mortal destinies, — was  brought  under  the  influence  of 
those  solemn  truths  of  religion,  which  alone  can  con- 
trol and  regulate  the  disordered  powers  of  the  human 
mind.  The  interests  of  an  immortal  existence — God, 
and  his  spiritual  service — heaven,  and  all  the  terrific 
hazards  of  our  probationary  course, — these  became  the 
leading  objects  of  thought,  of  feeling,  and  of  purpose. 
Such  a  change,  in  such  a  mind,  could  not  long  be  a 
matter  of  concealment  in  a  family  where  religion  was 
first,  and  all  other  concerns  were  regarded  as  minor 
and  subordinate.  Uncle  Enoch  soon  became  a  sharer 
in  their  hopes  and  gratitude ;  and,  month  after  month, 
so  urgent  and  repeated  were  his  entreaties  for  another 
visit,  that  neither  child  nor  parents  could  withhold  con- 
sent. 

But  why  was  it  that  Fanny,  who  in  the  days  of  her 
worldliness  did  not  hesitate,  was  so  slow  and  apparently 
so  unwilling  to  meet  her  pious  and  joyful  old  friend, 
when  her  most  sacred  sympathies  were  all  in  unison 
with  his  ]  It  was  the  evening  previous  to  her  depar- 
ture that  her  father  found  her  alone  and  in  tears. 

"What  is  it  that  troubles  you,  my  child?"  said  he. 

"  Father,  I  dread  this  visit  to  Uncle  Enoch." 

P 


114  FANNY    MORELAND. 

"Dread  this  visit!  What  can  be  the  reason  1" 

"  Oh,  father,  I  am  not  what  Uncle  Enoch  expects  me 
to  be.  I  know  I  cannot  keep  my  spirits  from  overflow- 
ing'. Religion  has  made  me  happier  than  ever  I  was 
before,  and  it  is  a  sober  and  rational  sort  of  happiness ; 
but  it  does  not  make  me  quiet,  and  sedate,  and  solemn, 
as  Uncle  Enoch  will  expect  to  find  me,  and  I  am  afraid 
it  never  will." 

"  Well,  my  child,  I  do  not  think  it  ever  will ;  and  I 
do  not  think  you  need  to  distress  yourself  if  it  does 
not." 

Mr.  Moreland  was  a  wise  man,  who  had  seen  much 
of  the  world  and  much  of  human  nature ;  and  he  was 
an  intelligent,  refined,  and  Christian  gentleman.  The 
difficulty  which  troubled  his  daughter  was  one  that  had 
occupied  his  own  speculations,  and  he  took  this  oppor- 
tunity to  communicate  more  definite  views  to  her  mind 
than  she  herself  could  command. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  my  child,"  said  he,  as  he  drew  her 
on  his  knee,  "  that  it  is  wrong  to  be  amused,  or  to  laugh 
at  what  is  ludicrous  T' 

"No,  father,  it  cannot  always  be  wrong,  for  some- 
times it  is  out  of  our  power  to  refrain.  For  instance, 
yesterday,  when  old  Mr.  Banks  made  such  a  sad  mis- 
take at  table,  and  then  looked  so  frightened,  and  made 
such  queer  grimaces,  and  such  an  odd  apology,  I  could 
no  more  help  laughing  than  I  could  help  breathing,  for 
I  am  sure  I  tried  my  utmost  to  refrain,  both  for  his  sake 
and  my  own." 

"  True,  my  child,  and  therefore  we  are  certain  that 
sometimes  it  must  be  right  to  use  the  risible  faculties 
which  God  has  implanted,  in  circumstances  where  they 
inevitably  will  be  called  into  exercise.     In  addition  to 


FANNY    MORELAND.  115 

this,  we  find  that  there  is  a  great  love  for  what  is  cal- 
culated to  excite  these  susceptibilities.  There  is  no- 
thing- men  like  better  than  to  be  made  to  laugh,  and 
whoever  affords  them  this  gratification  will  always  be 
a  favourite,  especially  if  it  is  done  in  an  innocent  and 
lawful  manner.  We  also  find  great  constitutional  dif- 
ferences in  mankind,  as  it  respects  the  love  of  the 
ludicrous,  and  the  power  of  appreciating  wit  and 
humour.  There  are  also  great  differences  as  to  the 
flow  of  animal  spirits.  Some  are  habitually  cheerful 
and  equable ;  others  are  phlegmatic,  and  prone  to  seri- 
ousness or  even  melancholy.  What  a  difference  we 
find  in  our  own  family !  Your  brother  Frederick,  from 
very  infancy,  how  reflective,  sedate,  and  almost  melan- 
choly ;  you  are  as  much  in  the  other  extreme ;  while 
Mary,  so  equable  and  serene,  is  just  halfway  between. 
Now,  did  you  expect  that  religion  would  change  these 
constitutional  peculiarities,  and  make  you  such  a  cha- 
racter as  your  brother  Frederick  1" 

"  Why,  father,  I  had  no  very  definite  view  on  the 
subject;  but  I  perceive  that  I  ought  not  to  expect  it." 

"I  think,"  continued  Mr.  Moreland,  "that  in  esti- 
mating religious  character,  too  little  regard  is  paid  to 
constitutional  peculiarities ;  and  that  a  serious  counte- 
nance, and  quiet  and  contemplative  habits,  have  taken 
a  place  as  evidences  of  religious  character,  which  is  not 
exactly  correct.  Religion  certainly  tends  to  make  us 
more  serious,  rational  and  contemplative,  than  if  it  did 
not  exist ;  but  it  does  not  tend  to  destroy  the  peculi- 
arities of  nature ;  nor  are  we  to  expect  that  all  con- 
sistently pious  persons  will  be  of  a  serious  aspect  and 
contemplative  turn.  Look,  too,  into  the  community 
around.     There  is  our  neighbour,  Bob  French ;  he  is 


116  FANNY    MORELAND. 

always  full  of  spirits  and  animation,  and  always  ready 
for  a  joke.  And  yet  he  is  deeply  interested  in  religion, 
and  seems  to  enjoy  all  its  duties.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  John  Grant,  who  has  not  entered  a  church  these 
five  years,  and  who  sneers  at  religion  and  at  all  con- 
nected with  it ;  and  yet  what  a  solemn,  demure  coun- 
tenance he  wears.  The  celebrated  Rowland  Hill  was 
as  much  distinguished  by  his  humour  and  oddity,  as  he 
was  for  his  deep  interest  in  religion.  He  could  not 
talk  five  minutes  without  giving  occasion  for  a  smile ; 
and,  though  he  never  purposed  it,  he  seldom  delivered 
a  sermon  without  moving  the  risibles  before  he  was 
through.  And  yet,  though  born  to  wealth  and  belong- 
ing to  the  proud  aristocracy  of  England,  his  time,  his 
influence,  and  his  wealth,  were  all  devoted  to  the  pro- 
motion of  religion  in  the  world." 

Here  Fanny  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "And  so, 
father,"  said  she,  "  you  are  thinking  that  I  shall  make 
such  a  funny  sort  of  Christian  as  Rowland  Hill  1" 

"No,  child,  I  hope  you  will  not  have  as  many  odd 
and  ludicrous  conceits  to  contend  with  as  he  did.  Still 
you  will  never  make  a  very  staid,  serious,  or  contem- 
plative person.  Yet  you  may  be  as  good,  and  even  a 
better  Christian,  than  many  who  possess  those  traits  of 
character." 

"  Father,"  said  Fanny,  "  the  other  day  I  heard  Dr. 
Jones  say,  that  nothing  was  better  for  the  health  than 
a  hearty  laugh ;  and  that  half  the  time  I  could  furnish 
a  better  prescription,  at  least  for  the  preservation  of 
health,  than  any  of  his  medical  nostrums.  He  said 
that  every  one  ought  to  laugh,  at  least  once  a  day,  so 
as  fairly  to  sliake  his  sides." 

"  No  doubt  there  is  some  truth  in  the  Doctor's  re- 


FANNY   MORELAND.  H'-jf 

mark,"  said  Mr.  Moreland,  "  and  it  were  well  if  some 
religious  persons  were  convinced  of  this  fact.  It  is 
true,  that  habitual  levity  of  mind  is  inconsistent  with 
Christian  character;  but  it  is  equally  true,  that  occa- 
sional seasons  of  relaxation  and  merriment  may  some- 
times be  a  duty.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  constitution 
of  things,  in  this  world,  is  adapted  rather  to  what  men 
ought  to  be,  than  to  what  they  are.  If  religion  held 
that  place  in  their  thoughts  and  interests  which  its  im- 
portance demands,  it  would  produce  such  strong  stimu- 
lus, and  such  deep  feeling,  as  might  injure  both  health 
and  reason,  unless  some  alternative  could  be  intro- 
duced, that  would,  at  times,  relax  the  mind,  and  turn  it 
entirely  from  such  exciting  and  engrossing  interests. 
And  there  seems  to  be  a  class  of  persons  who,  by  con- 
stitutional temperament,  are  predisposed  to  furnish  this 
kind  of  relaxation,  which,  in  proper  times  and  propor- 
tions, is  not  only  lawful  but  healthful.  The  difficulty 
is,  that  men  do  not  give  religion  its  proper  place  in 
their  interests ;  and  yet,  that  the  love  for  this  kind  of 
excitement  is  so  strong  that  there  is  constant  danger 
of  going  to  dangerous  extremes.  And  it  is  because  of 
this  danger  that  there  is  so  much  watchfulness  in  the 
religious  world,  in  excluding  this  kind  of  enjoyment. 
And  the  great  difficulty  always  must  be,  to  decide 
when  and  how  much  of  this  kind  of  relaxation  is  safe 
and  right. 

"  A  person  constituted  as  you  are,  needs  to  bear  in 
mind,  not  only  what  may  be  right  in  itself  considered, 
but  also  the  circumstances  in  which  you  may  be  placed. 
Your  danger  and  temptation  will  be  to  excessive  levi- 
ty; and  it  may  aid  you  to  control  it,  to  bear  in  mind, 
that  the  excessive  levity  and  amusements  of  worldli- 


118  FANNY    MORELAND. 

ness  have  led  many  pious  minds  too  far  in  an  opposite 
extreme ;  so  that  you  will  often  be  called  to  practise 
on  the  principle  of  the  apostle,  when  he  would  not  eat 
meat  oifered  to  an  idol ;  not  because  he  deemed  it 
wrong  in  itself,  but  because  it  might  tempt  a  weak 
brother  to  offend.  So  you  are  required  to  be  careful 
not  to  tempt  others  to  violate  their  conscience  by  doing 
what  you  deem  innocent  and  lawful. 

"  You  will  find  that  many  irreligious  persons,  also, 
suppose  that  the  profession  of  religion  includes  a  belief 
that  all  merriment  is  wrong  and  to  be  avoided.  In  such 
society,  you  ought  not  to  allow  what  they  will  suppose 
to  be  a  violation  of  your  principles,  unless  you  can  have 
a  proper  opportunity  to  make  known  what  they  are. 

"  The  most  proper  time  and  place  for  such  indulgences 
is  in  the  family  circle,  at  home.  Parents,  in  the  nur- 
sery, or  at  the  fire-side,  can  find  opportunities  enough 
for  relaxation,  by  joining  in  the  sports  and  amusements 
of  their  children.  At  the  same  time,  they  will  be  gain- 
ing an  influence  over  their  children  that  none  can  se- 
cure so  surely  as  those  who  share  in  their  amusements. 
This  is  the  reason  why  your  mother  and  myself  so 
often  have  joined  in  your  amusements ;  and  why  we 
have  allowed  you  so  free  license  at  home,  while  we 
strove  to  restrain  you  abroad. 

"  It  will  do  you  good  to  be  placed  under  those  circum- 
stances of  restraint,  which  kindness  and  Christian  prin- 
ciple will  impose  in  the  society  of  your  uncle ;  and  it 
is  possible  you  may  modify  some  of  his  notions,  that 
verge  to  an  extreme  of  restriction,  by  watching  your 
time,  and  accommodating  to  circumstances,  with  a 
kindness  and  tact  which  you  know  how  to  employ." 

Fanny  paid  the  visit  to  her  uncle,  and,  with  her 


FANNY   MORELAND.  jjQ 

usual  fortune,  was  just  in  time  to  witness  the  only  lu- 
dicrous  occurrence  that  had  happened  in  the  village  for 
years.     It  was  the  very  next  Sunday  after  her  arrival. 
She  had  just  seated  herself  in  the  antiquated  church, 
the  relic  of  the  earliest  period  of  the  village  history. 
It  was  a  beautiful,  warm,  winter  morning,  succeeding 
one  of  those  sleet  storms,  so  well  known  in  New  Eng- 
land, which  cover  all  nature  with  a  garb  of  smooth  and 
shining  ice.     The  houses  reflected  the  sun,  like  vast 
mirror  plates ;  the  tapering  stalactites  hung  gleaming 
from  the  eaves ;  every  tree  and  shrub  was  bending  be- 
neath its  shining  load,  while  the  slightest  twig  or  spray 
was  bearing  its  sparkling  jewel.     The  drifted  snow- 
banks, the  whitened  fields,  the  fences,  rocks,  and  every 
visible  object,  were  glistening  in  sheets  of  transparent 
ice. 

Within  the  church,  the  congregation  were  assem- 
bled, waiting  in  silence  for  the  commencement  of  ser- 
vice.    Uncle  Enoch  was  seated  in  the  elevated  box, 
yclept  a  pulpit,  under  the  pendant,  steeple-shaped  sound- 
ing board,  which,  as  Fanny  said,  looked  like  a  turnip 
hanging  over  an  apple-bin.     In  front  of  the  pulpit,  in 
the   little  pen  called  the  deacon's  seat,  sat  Deacon 
Smith,  with  white  hair,  meek  countenance,  and  half 
closed  eyes;  and  beside  him  Deacon  Tuthill,  with  a 
stolid,  fixed  and  solemn  look.    The  singers  were  seated 
opposite,  in  the  gallery,  headed  by  Squire  Bissel,  the 
chorister,  with  his  pitch-pipe  before  him,  all  ready  for 
use.     The  side  door,  which,  in  old  fashioned  churches 
in  -^ew  England,  opens  into  the  broad  aisle,  directly 
opposite  the  pulpit,  was  standing  open  to  admit  the 
warm  rays  of  the  sun. 
No  sound  was  heard,  except  the  regular  patter  of  the 


120  FANNY    MORELAND. 

drops  from  the  eaves,  or  an  occasional  crash,  as  some 
burdened  tree,  assisted  by  the  sun,  shook  off  its  heavy 
load,  and  sent  the  rattling-  fragments  far  and  wide,  till 
their  last  tinkle  died  away  into  silence. 

The  church  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  so  steep  that 
no  direct  path  led  to  the  side  door ;  but,  as  the  sleighs 
and  foot  passengers  came  along,  they  could  be  seen 
through  the  open  door,  passing  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  as  they  wended  along  down  to  the  back  of  the 
church. 

Just  as  Uncle  Enoch  rose  to  commence  the  service, 
a  sleigh  passed  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  and,  as  it  came 
opposite  the  door,  Miss  Betsy  Bibbins  also  was  seen 
walking  along,  with  her  little  wooden  foot-stove  in  her 
hand.  Now  this  Miss  Betsy  was  a  comfortable  little 
dolt  of  a  body,  who  always  calculated  to  do  every  thing 
just  about  right ;  one  who  never  troubled  herself  about 
others,  while  others  never  troubled  themselves  about 
her;  a  quiet,  insignificant  person,  who  seemed  to  be 
placed  in  society  just  "  to  fill  up  a  chink." 

She  was  always  dressed  just  so,  and  no  otherwise ; 
and  she  carried  the  most  placid  look  of  satisfaction  at 
every  thing  about  herself  The  sleigh  overtook  Miss 
Betsy ;  she  stepped  out,  so  as  to  be  sure  not  to  be  in 
the  wrong  place.  Just  then  her  foot  slipped,  and,  find- 
ing- she  could  not  stand.  Miss  Betsy  sat;  and,  finding 
she  could  not  sit  still,  she  began  to  move ;  and,  though 
she  would  greatly  have  preferred  another  course,  it 
was  directly  toward  the  open  cluirch  door.  First,  off 
slid  her  nicely  folded  handkerchief,  then  her  psalm  book 
followed  after,  and,  continuing  its  course,  entered  the 
church  door  with  a  bounce,  as  if  to  announce  the  ap- 
proach of  its  owner.  At  length  down  came  Miss  Betsy, 


FANNY   MORELAND.  121 

holding  up  her  foot-stove  in  one  hand,  and  anxiously- 
paddling'  along  with  the  other,  till  she  came,  full  tilt, 
clear  through  the  door,  and  plump  into  the  broad  aisle. 
Then,  with  a  most  rueful  look,  she  gathered  herself 
up,  and,  trotting  round  a  corner,  ensconced  herself  in 
her  wonted  seat,  and  sat  as  demure  and  quiet  as  if 
nothing  in  particular  had  occurred. 

The  shock  on  the  congregation  was  irresistible.  No 
mortal,  that  had  a  risible,  could  refrain  from,  at  least,  a 
momentary  twitch.  Uncle  Enoch,  as  he  stood  fronting 
the  scene,  had  witnessed  it  all,  and  for  a  moment  he 
was  obliged  to  step  back  and  hide  his  face.  But  it  was 
only  a  moment,  and  it  was  followed  by  such  a  look  of 
contrition,  and  such  a  prayer  of  penitent  humiliation, 
that  seriousness  and  devotion  were  soon  restored  to 
their  wonted  rest. 

But,  after  this,  Fanny  easily  gained  her  starting 
point ;  that  the  control  of  our  risibles  is  sometimes  be- 
yond our  power ;  and  then  she  urged  the  peculiarities 
of  natural  temperament ;  and  then  she  pled  her  own 
cause,  with  one  whose  heart  was  all  on  her  side ;  and 
ere  she  left,  she  had  so  adjusted  matters,  that  she  never 
again  was  found  weeping  at  the  thought  of  a  visit  to 
Uncle  Enoch. 

Walnut  Hills,  (Ohio.) 


Q, 


122 


WHAT   IS   A   NAME? 

BV  GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 
I. 

What  is  a  name  !  the  Glory 

We  gather  from  the  Earth'? 
The  ray  that  lights  the  story 

Of  our  weariness  or  mirth  ? 
Is  it  the  beam  that  round  our  years 

That  faultless  lustre  flings, 
Which  gives  them,  though  conceiv'd  in  tears, 

The  flight  of  angel  wings ! 

II. 
What  is  a  name  !  the  Beauty 

That  bows  the  heart  like  prayer  1 
That  makes  tlie  worship  duty, 

Which  once  was  but  a  care  1 
Is  it  to  hear  tlie  harmony 

Around  us,  as  we  tread, 
Of  vows  that  but  the  good  who  die 

Hear  in  their  narrow  bed  1 

III. 

What  is  a  name  !   to  listen 

To  plaudits  loud  and  long. 
Where  flashing  banners  glisten 

About  the  path  of  song  1 


VALIANT    FOR    THE    TRUTPI.  123 

Is  it  to  hear  from  those  who  bow 

In  flattery's  garb  they  borrow, 
The  idol  tone  they  render  now 

To  him  they  taunt  to-morrow  ] 

IV. 

What  is  a  name !  the  wonder, 

That  round  the  ringing  way 
Of  hero  crown'd  with  thunder. 

Breaks  like  a  second  day  1 
Or  is  it  that  undying  voice, 

Like  clarion  heard,  and  far. 
Of  welcome  to  unfathom'd  joys 

Beyond  the  cloud  and  star  I 
Portland,  (Me.) 


"VALIANT  FOR  THE  TRUTH.' 

BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

Fight  the  good  fight ; — lay  hold 

Upon  eternal  life ; 
Keep  but  thy  shield,  be  bold, 

Stand  through  the  hottest  strife ; 
Invincible  while  in  the  field, 
Thou  canst  not  fail, — unless  thou  yield. 

No  force  of  earth  or  hell. 

Though  fiends  with  men  unite, 


124  VALIANT    FOR    THE    TRUTH. 

Truth's  champion  can  compel, 

However  prest,  to  flight; 
Invincible  upon  the  field, 
He  must  prevail, — unless  he  yield. 

ApoUyon's  arm  may  shower 
Darts  thick  as  hail,  and  hide 

Heaven's  face,  as  in  the  hour 
When  Christ  on  Calvary  died ; 

No  powers  of  darkness,  in  the  field. 

Can  tread  thee  down, — unless  thou  yield. 

Trust  in  thy  Saviour's  might. 

Yea,  till  thy  latest  breath. 
Fight,  and  like  him  in  fight. 

By  dying  conquer  death ; 
Then  rise  to  glory  from  the  field. 
And  with  thy  sword  thy  spirit  yield. 

Great  words  are  these,  and  strong; 

Yet,  Lord,  I  look  to  thee, 
To  whom  alone  belong 

Valour  and  victory ; 
If  God  be  for  me  in  the  field. 
Whom  can  I  fear  ]   I  will  not  yield, 

Sheffield,  (Eng.)  183G. 


125 


CREATION  FULL  OF  ACTIVE  LIFE. 

BY  REV.  NEHEMIAH  ADAMS. 

The  incessant  activity  that  pervades  creation  is,  to  a 
great  degree,  unnoticed  by  us,  on  account  of  the  silence 
which  attends  it.  The  astronomer's  orrery,  and  the 
magnifying-  glass,  occasionally  remind  us  that  all  things 
are  full  of  life  and  motion ;  but,  after  the  most  protract- 
ed and  instructive  observations,  w^e  are  compelled  to 
say  of  the  universe  that  virhich  is  sublimely  said  of  its 
great  First  Cause,  "  Lo !  these  are  parts  of  its  ways, 
but  how  little  a  portion  is  heard  of  it ;  the  thunder  of 
its  power  who  can  understand !" 

Nothing  that  God  has  made  is  inactively  at  rest. 
"  In  Him  is  life ;"  and  every  thing  unperverted  from 
its  original  condition  bears  evidence,  in  this  respect,  of 
being  his  offspring.  Let  us  begin  at  the  centre  of  our 
system.  Addison's  epithet,  "the  unwearied  sun,"  is 
expressive,  when  we  think  of  that  luminary,  in  the 
popular  sense,  as  having  risen  and  measured  out  the 
day,  and  rising  again  for  six  thousand  years.  All  this 
time  he  has  shed  forth  light  and  heat,  and  waked  up 
life  in  numberless  organic  forms  throughout  the  sys- 
tem depending  upon  him  as  its  centre.  Not  content  to 
be  a  stationary  source  of  blessing,  he  revolves  upon  his 
own  axis,  turning  round  his  amazing  fires  from  a  simple 
abhorrence,  as  it  would  seem,  of  being  at  rest,  but 
really  from  the  same  great  principle  of  incessant  mo- 


126  CREATION   FULL   OF 

tion  which  the  law  of  attraction  and  gravitation  sustains 
in  all  parts  of  the  system.  The  sun  is  supposed  to  be 
incessantly  expending  itself,  and  must  of  course  as 
incessantly  be  in  itself  elaborating  its  means  of  vast 
expenditure.  The  centre  and  source  of  light  and  heat 
is  probably  the  subject  of  the  most  all-pervading  and 
ceaseless  motion,  especially  if,  as  many  suppose,  every 
part  of  it  is  flying  off  in  infinite  particles,  followed  by 
a  perpetual  succession. 

If  we  look  at  other  parts  of  our  system,  we  shall 
see  the  same  great  law  of  activity  pervading  the 
whole.  Every  thing  is  kept  at  work,  and  idleness 
seems  rebellion.  The  whole  material  system  is  con- 
structed on  the  principle  of  keeping  its  tremendous  en- 
ergies in  constant  operation.  The  planet  is  not  an 
extended  plane,  motionless,  and  lighted  by  an  unvary- 
ing light.  It  is  a  globe,  which  must  turn  itself  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  grateful  succession  of  day  and  night,  seed- 
time and  harvest,  summer  and  winter.  It  is  not  fixed 
on  motionless  pillars,  but  gives  employment  to  the  sun 
who  keeps  it  by  constant  attraction  in  its  orbit,  while 
at  the  same  time  its  centrifugal  motion  is  always 
throwing  it  off,  and  the  two  contrary  principles  keep  up 
its  incessant  movement.  It  is  interesting  to  observe, 
that  the  two  fundamental  principles  in  the  motion  of 
the  planetary  system  are  opposed  to  each  other,  the  one 
drawing  its  object  one  way,  and  the  other  compelling 
it  another.  But  what  harmonious  opposition  !  What 
peaceful  strife !  Their  very  contrariety  conducing  to 
the  order,  stedfastness,  and  life,  of  the  universe.  Man 
has  not  yet  fully  learned  tlie  principle  of  instruction 
taught  liere,  that  contrariness  of  disposition,  interest 
and  pursuit,  does  not  make  enmity  necessary;   but. 


ACTIVE   LIFE.  127 

without  doubt,  in  good  beings,  as  well  as  amongst  the 
orbs  of  heaven,  is  a  means  of  perpetual  and  harmonious 
activity  and  life. 

The  atmosphere  that  surrounds  the  earth  to  the 
height,  as  some  suppose,  of  about  two  miles,  partakes 
of  the  same  principle  of  constant  motion.  By  means 
of  it,  the  rays  of  the  sun  are  subdued  and  softened  to 
the  organ  of  sight.  The  atmosphere  is  thus  continually 
modifying  the  power  of  the  sun,  and  its  wise  interpo- 
sition between  us  and  that  luminary  shows  us  again, 
that  many  things  which  might  have  been  so  constructed 
as  to  fulfil  their  intention  without  help  from  other 
sources,  are  made  dependent  upon  them,  that  the  uni- 
verse may  put  forth  all  its  active  principles,  and  every 
thing  be  drawn  into  serviceable  life.  The  atmosphere 
moves  with  the  earth,  rolling  along  its  enginery  of 
subtle  but  mighty  powers.  Its  electrical  agencies  are 
continually  at  work  in  sublime  and  beautiful  manifes- 
tations. These,  with  the  constant  decomposition  of  the 
gases,  probably  make  the  air  currents,  varying  from 
the  zephyr  to  the  tempest  and  hurricane.  Meteors  are 
born  there ;  luminous  paths,  circles  and  arches,  are  sent 
from  it  to  the  face  of  the  sky ;  the  rainbow  is  its  adopt- 
ed child ;  and  rain  and  dew,  and  the  treasures  of  frost, 
snow  and  hail,  in  a  constant  process  of  formation,  speak 
of  the  energies  that  fill  the  firmament. 

Whenever  we  look  upon  this  earth,  we  are  met  by 
this  same  great  principle  of  active  life.  How  wonder- 
fully is  it  manifested  in  the  earth's  vegetative  power. 
The  earth  is  even  in  a  state  of  preparation  for  putting 
forth  its  fruits,  when  it  is  locked  up  with  frost.  That 
which  seems  death,  is,  in  fact,  a  process  of  restoration 
of  exhausted  life.     When  the  autumn  is  finished,  and 


X28  CREATION   FULL   OF 

the  tired  earth  is  unable  to  begin  immediately  its  labour, 
and  decay  would  spread  amongst  its  secret  vital  powers 
if  left  exhausted  and  exposed,  as  it  does  amongst  its  pro- 
ducts, the  frosts  of  winter  soon  come  and  bind  it  up  in  a 
state  in  which  it  not  only  has  rest  and  preservation,  but 
acquires  strength  for  the  labours  of  the  coming  year. 
If  it  is  not  the  case  that  winter  resuscitates  the  earth, 
and  that  a  process  of  restoration  is  going  on  while  the 
frost  prevails,  how  strange  that  three  months  of  death 
should  prepare  the  earth  for  the  bursting  life  of  spring. 
Before  the  appointed  season  arrives,  the  tender  green 
blade  and  bud  thrust  themselves  forth  with  impatience 
of  delay,  and  the  earth  seems  full  of  desire  to  put  forth 
its  hidden  vegetation.  What  infinite  life  and  activity 
then  appears.  There  is  not  a  tree  that  lives  whose 
fibres,  from  root  to  branch,  are  not  visited  with  the 
life-giving  sap,  threading  itself  out  into  the  new  bud  of 
leaf  or  fruit.  Every  plant,  and  bush,  and  shrub,  feels 
the  general  motion.  The  surface  of  hill  and  valley 
smiles.  A  thousand  fountains  leap  forth  to  the  sun, 
and  hide  themselves  in  the  earth,  or  course  away  to  the 
sea,  partaking  of  the  general  joy.  Then  the  clear, 
penetrating  wind,  and  the  early  rain,  and  the  sun 
coming  forth  as  a  bridegroom  to  his  bride  over  the 
smiling  earth,  wake  up  its  innumerable  operations. 
Suppose  that  it  were  possible  for  man  to  invent  such  a 
process  as  this,  by  which  he  could  originate  and  sustain 
the  power  of  universal  vegetation.  What  clamorous 
and  thundering  enginery  would  he  probably  set  in  mo- 
tion; and,  judging  from  his  present  inventions,  how 
painful  would  be  the  noise  and  confusion  of  his  handy- 
work  !  Observe  the  contrast  in  the  present  organiza- 
tion of  nature.    These  infinite  operations  proceed  with 


ACTIVE    LIFE.  129 

perfect  stillness.  The  whole  earth  awakes  to  life,  but 
with  perfect  peace  !  There  is  no  confusion,  no  noise ; 
but  an  impressive  silence  speaks  the  praise  of  that 
omnipotent  God,  whose  skill  and  power  are  no  way 
more  perfectly  contrasted  wHh  the  imperfect  skill  and 
the  feebleness  of  man,  ':han  in  the  silence  of  his  stu- 
pendous works. 

Those  parts  of  the  earth  which  had  been  kept  secret 
till  they  were  laid  open  by  man,  show  us,  that  in  all 
its  dark  places  it  is  pervaded  by  the  same  principle  of 
active  life  that  appears  upon  its  surface.  Chemical 
agents  are  continually  at  work  in  the  production  of  new 
forms.  A  thousand  involutions  of  affinities,  and  the 
combinations  of  their  results,  as  well  as  the  action  upon 
each  other  of  opposite  qualities  of  matter,  fill  the  inte- 
rior of  the  earth  with  constant  motion.  Old  eruptions 
and  new  volcanos  show,  that  the  deep  places  of  the 
earth  are  moved  with  the  principle  of  life ;  and  the 
well-known  sympathy  between  volcanos,  which  at 
several  times  have  made  eruptions  simultaneously  in 
different  parts  of  the  world,  is  a  proof  of  a  secret,  uni- 
versal agency  through  the  centre  of  the  earth.  Un- 
numbered curious  and  beautiful  forms  of  the  mineral 
kingdom,  produced,  many  of  them,  by  the  action  upon 
their  original  substances  of  solvent  or  crystallizing  agen- 
cies,— stylactites  in  caves,  petrifactions,  veins  of  metals 
running  through  beds  of  solid  rock,  prismatic  colours 
of  exquisite  beauty  and  variety  found  on  flinty  sub- 
stances, quarries  of  coal,  alluvial  deposits,  beds  of  the 
various  chemical  earthy  substances,  formed  by  the  dis- 
engagement of  gases  or  their  combinations  with  mat- 
ter, are  the  results  of  an  incessant  activity,  which,  in- 
stead of  being  impeded,  is  quickened  by  resistance,  and 

R 


130  CREATION    FULL   OF 

is  throwing  the  latent  parts  of  creation  into  multiplied 
shapes  beyond  the  comprehension  of  man.  The  earth, 
from  its  centre  to  its  circumference,  is  a  world  of  life 
and  motion. 

"  So  is  this  great  and  wide  sea,  in  which  are  creep- 
ing things  innumerable,  both  small  and  great."  It  is 
perhaps  a  matter  of  fancy  rather  than  of  fact,  but  which 
indeed  is  often  apparently  confirmed  by  observation, 
that  every  tiling  on  land  has  a  corresponding  form  in 
the  sea.  Looking  at  a  collection  of  marine  productions, 
it  is  easy  to  discover  in  almost  every  one  of  them  a  re- 
semblance to  some  well-known  fruit,  vegetable,  plant, 
or  other  land  production.  The  sea  teems  with  all 
manner  of  curious  forms,  whose  construction  and  com- 
bination manifestly  indicate  incessant  life  in  places 
which  we  assign  to  the  region  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
There  is  no  rock  lifting  itself  up,  a  monument  over  the 
ocean's  dead, — or,  when  covered  by  tempests  and  hid- 
den from  the  navigator,  strewing  the  sea  with  wrecks 
and  forms  of  men, — but  gathers  round  its  deep,  dark 
sides  a  little  world  of  vegetable,  animal,  or  half  ani- 
mated being.  While  to  the  eye  of  the  sailor  it  is 
nothing  but  the  gravestone  of  ships  and  men,  it  is  at 
once  parent  and  home  to  a  thousand  forms  of  organized 
life.  The  luminous  streaks  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean 
at  night,  which  are  supposed  by  some  to  be  processions 
of  millions  of  little  creatures  passing  on  their  way, 
guided  by  the  same  wisdom  that  directs  the  eagle's  and 
the  angel's  flight,  are  proofs  of  the  life  that  is  in  the 
sea.  Not  a  ship  can  pass  through  its  paths  but  the  bar- 
nacles will  cleave  to  its  sides,  and  compel  it  to  bring  to 
men  on  land  the  proofs,  in  their  curious  and  apparently 
useless  formation,  that  the  watery  worlds  are  pervaded 


ACTIVE    LIFE. 


131 


by  the  same  principle  of  incessant  activity.     It  is  curi- 
ous to  observe  upon  an  object  that  was  lost  from  a  ship 
at  sea,  and  many  years  after  is  fished  up  from  the 
deep,    the    rude,    heterogeneous  accretion   of   shells, 
plants,    coral,    unbedded   in   each   other's   growth,  in 
their  strife  to  secure  a  place  each  for  itself,  as  though 
there  were  no  other  convenient  resting-place  for  any 
of  them  amongst  the  crowded  population  of  the  deep. 
Under  currents,  without  number,  keep  the  centre  of 
the  sea  in  perpetual  agitation.     Look  at  its  surface 
when  you  will,  the  same  incessant  motion  which  began 
with  its  birth,  rocks  it  now.     Go  to  any  shore,  and  the 
untiring  succession  of  wave  after  wave  is  still  seen. 
Its  hidden  depths   are    filled  with  swarms  of  living 
things ;  and  it  might  well  be  a  matter  of  dispute  whe- 
ther, as  it  is  often  said,  the  smaller  tribes  were  created 
to  supply  the  larger  with  food,  or  whether  the  larger 
were  created  to  prevent  the  ocean  from  being  over- 
stocked, and  to  give  continual  room  to  its  prolific  ener- 
gies.    Formations  of  curious  substances,  analogous  to 
geological  formations  on  land,  are  continually  going  on 
in  the  sea.     In  the  Southern  Ocean  there  are  huge 
perpendicular  walls  of  coral ;  and  in  the  Pacific  Ocean 
coral   islands,  whose  substance   is   a   combination   of 
mineral  matter  and  carbonate  of  lime.     The  common 
sponge,  found  upon  the  rocks  in  the  Mediterranean  Sea 
and  elsewhere,  which  naturalists  knew  not  for  a  long 
time  whether  to  call  a  mineral,  vegetable,  or  animal, 
is  now  pronounced  to  be  of  the  latter  class,  holding, 
with  an  immense  number  of  similar  formations,  an  in- 
termediate space  between  animate  and  inanimate  life. 
The  restless  combinations  of  chemical  properties  in  the 
sea,  as  well  as  on  land  and  in  the  atmosphere,  gives 


132  CREATION  FULL  OF 

birth  to  these  innumerable  forms.  Lime,  in  one  of  its 
chemical  states,  falling  in  with  gelatinous  substances, 
is  said  to  produce  this  curious  article  of  commerce  just 
named ;  and  is  an  instance  of  that  wonderful  secret  in 
the  operations  of  nature,  by  which  tv/o  apparently  inert 
substances  combine,  and  produce  a  species  of  life. 
Whether,  therefore,  you  consider  the  walls,  or  islands, 
or  branches  of  coral,  or  the  half-animated  substances 
which  fasten  themselves  to  the  rocks,  and  there,  many 
of  them,  for  ever  undiscovered,  incessantly  obey  the 
tossing  to  and  fro  of  the  sea ;  or  the  shell-fish  that  comes 
into  being  with  embryo  pearls  in  it,  and  lives  as  it  were 
only  for  their  formation,  and  is  all  the  time  imparting 
to  them  its  own  substance ;  or  whether  you  look  at  the 
luxurious  growth  of  the  green  weed  and  sea-plant,  in 
their  almost  numberless  varieties;  or  the  formations 
upon  rocks ;  or  the  deposites  of  ocean  on  its  thousand 
shores ;  or  the  innumerable  tribes  of  living  things  that 
cleave  its  depths,  or  haunt  its  recesses;  or  the  polar 
seas,  with  their  world  of  wonders,  beautifully  terrific ; 
and,  to  crown  the  whole,  the  unceasing  motion  of  the 
mighty  element,  moving  together  as  if  it  were  one, 
and  having  no  rest  from  age  to  age, — you  cannot  but 
be  struck  with  the  principle  of  activity  that  pervades 
this  majestic  portion  of  the  universe  of  God.  Life,  life, 
meets  you  wherever  you  turn,  and  even  the  inanimate 
emulate  the  living  things.  Thus  every  thing  on  high, 
around,  beneath,  and  in  the  waters  under  the  earth,  is 
full  of  motion. 

We  cannot  express  the  perceptions  of  wisdom  which 
we  must  necessarily  have  in  contemplating  the  physical 
system  as  now  described.  It  appears  that  every  part 
of  it,  and  its  organization  as  a  whole,  is  constructed  on 


ACTIVE    LIFE.  I33 

the  principle  of  bring-ing-  all  its  energies  into  active  and 
benevolent  operation.  As  in  a  vi^ell  regulated  and 
happy  family  each  member  has  his  duty  assigned  him, 
and  all  of  them  moving  harmoniously  in  their  proper 
station  make  a  result  of  efficient  and  delightful  co- 
operation,— so  the  employment  of  each  of  the  vast 
family  of  universal  agencies  moves  the  whole  onward 
in  useful  and  beautiful  order.  Every  thing  has  its  em- 
ployment, and  depends  upon  or  assists  another.  One 
process  or  combination  gives  existence  to  things  which 
in  their  turn  are  the  originals  of  others.  As  the  great 
commercial  cities  of  a  country  are  of  necessity,  by  the 
activity  of  business,  most  intimately  connected  with 
each  other,  so  the  great  departments  of  nature  are  mu- 
tual dependencies  and  allies.  The  earth  and  sea  con- 
tinually send  up  exhalations  into  the  air ;  the  rain  and 
dew  come  down  to  bless  the  earth,  and,  feeding  the 
secret  springs,  enable  the  mountains,  like  eastern  kings, 
to  send  their  tokens  to  the  great  sea.  Incessant  mo- 
tion in  all  parts  of  the  physical  universe  creates  de- 
pendence in  each  part  on  another,  not  merely  for 
supply,  but  for  opportunity  of  relieving  itself  of  its 
continual  productions ;  just  as  a  fruitful  clime  requires 
another  distant  place,  which,  by  receiving  its  products, 
will  permit  their  growth.  It  cannot  fail  to  interest 
any  one  who  has  a  love  for  nature,  to  think  of  this  law 
of  mutual  dependence  in  all  parts  of  creation,  and  to 
think  of  it  as  arising  from  the  perpetual  activity  that 
pervades  the  whole. 

The  view  of  the  universe  which  we  have  now  taken 
is  fitted  to  give  us  enlarged  conceptions  of  the  power 
and  skill  of  its  great  First  Cause.  That  mind  must 
certainly  be  destitute  of  some  of  the  original  principles 


134  CREATION   FULL   OF 

of  moral  excellence,  that  will  not  instinctively  turn 
from  such  a  system,  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  to 
inquire  concerning  its  author.  As  a  matter  of  intelli- 
gent inquiry,  and  of  intellectual  as  well  as  of  deep  mo- 
ral interest,  any  one  would  naturally  suppose  that  those 
who  have  perceptions  of  the  wonders  of  the  universe, 
would  make  it  an  object  to  know  as  much  as  possible 
of  that  Being  who  devised,  constructed,  and  sustains 
the  whole.  Neither  can  any  but  an  atheist  feel,  that 
the  suggestion  to  his  mind  of  such  a  Being  is  unplea- 
sant, without  betraying  a  derangement  of  his  moral 
and  intellectual  state.  To  a  good  mind,  the  simple 
idea  of  a  Being  worthy  to  be  the  author  of  such  a  stu- 
pendous system,  is  attended  with  conceptions  of  incon- 
ceivable sublimity.  The  consciousness  of  having  Him 
for  a  father  and  friend,  does  not  impair  the  enjoyment 
derived  from  contemplating  his  works. 

This  principle  of  incessant  activity  in  the  physical 
universe,  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  intended  chiefly  to  set 
forth  before  intelligent  beings  the  natural  attributes  of 
God.  How  full  the  earth  is  of  things  which  seem  to 
have  no  other  end  than  to  awaken  thoughts  of  God, 
through  illustrations  of  his  infinite  perfections.  Why 
have  not  the  birds  throughout  the  world  the  same 
plumage  ?  Why  that  exquisite  diversity  of  green,  and 
blue,  and  scarlet  tints,  and  snowy  white,  upon  their 
feathers  1  What  wonderful  variety  of  voices  and  songs ! 
The  evident  purpose  in  this  is  to  illustrate  in  part  the 
character  of  that  eternal  Mind  so  full  of  conceptions  of 
beauty,  that  it  is  continually  using  new  forms  in  which 
to  embody  them,  and  throwing  them  out  for  its  own 
infinite  pleasure,  and  that  of  intelligent  creatures, 
that  they  may  see  God  in  and  through  his  works.    I  say, 


ACTIVE    LIFE. 


135 


God's  own  infinite  pleasure ;  for  it  is  a  false  notion  which 
many  have  of  the  Supreme  Being,  that  it  is  dishonour- 
able to  Him  to  suppose  that  He  can  take  pleasure  in  such 
minute  things.  "  For  his  pleasure  they  are  and  were 
created."  Every  thing  that  is  beautiful  and  glorious  in 
the  created  universe,  originated  in  the  mind  of  God. 
He  formed  the  conception  of  it  before  it  had  any  being. 
If,  then,  these  wonders  of  creation  are  the  efforts  of  his 
mind,  how  unspeakably  glorious  must  that  mind  be. 
We  need  not  fear  to  look  upon  any  thing,  however 
small  and  insignificant  in  itself,  as  an  object  of  the  at- 
tention and  love  of  God.  Indeed,  his  character  is  seen 
in  a  most  interesting  light,  when  we  trace  his  wisdom 
and  skill  amongst  the  very  minutest  orders  of  creation. 
The  poor  insect  from  which  man  shrinks  instinctively 
with  loathing,  when  examined  is  found  to  be  an  object 
of  Almighty  wisdom  and  favour.  The  downy  green 
light  on  the  back  of  an  East  India  Beetle,  and  the  end- 
less variety  of  similar  appearances  amongst  the  insect 
tribe,  are  the  results  of  a  perpetual  activity  in  the  cre- 
ating mind,  using  new  forms  in  which  to  express  itself. 
It  is  true  that  these  things  awaken  admiration  and 
pleasure  in  man ;  but  it  was  not  the  only  or  the  chief 
end  of  their  construction  to  please  him,  though  he  is  in- 
cluded in  the  divine  intention.  Where  benevolence  to 
man  was  evidently  not  the  motive,  the  same  incessant 
activity  shows  itself,  in  the  same  profusion  of  beauty 
and  skill.  Wild  flowers ;  minerals  of  astonishing  form- 
ation and  colours;  marine  shells,  with  inward  surfaces 
of  perfect  enamel,  and  their  curiously  twisted  but  regu- 
lar shape ;  precious  stones,  dug  up  from  the  foundations 
of  the  earth,  as  though  they  were  not  made  for  the 
sight  of  man;   the  different  forms  of  moss  which  it 


136  CREATION   FULL   OF 

seems  sacrilege  to  touch,  filling-  the  hidden  places  of  a 
high  mountain,  where  it  seemed  improbable  that  man 
would  ever  find  it — living  alone,  reflecting  back  upon  its 
Maker  his  beautiful  skill ;  and  the  innumerable  forms  of 
perfection  which  our  present  acquaintance  with  the  won- 
ders of  the  sea  leads  us  to  infer  exist  there,  but  which 
will  never  see  the  light  or  meet  the  eye  of  man ; — all 
show  that  the  eternal  Mind  is  the  abode  of  perfect 
beauty,  order,  and  harmony,  and  these  secret  things  of 
the  creation  are  the  irrepressible  outpourings  of  its 
amazing  and  beautiful  conceptions.  In  unexplored 
wilds,  how  many  thousand  birds  are  there  whose  plum- 
age and  music  man  has  never  known;  and  curious 
creeping  things,  and  exquisite  plants  and  flowers,  prai- 
ries of  wonders,  and  worlds  by  themselves  of  animated 
and  perfect  organization,  whose  only  design  was  to 
gratify  the  love  of  God  in  beholding  happiness  even  in 
the  unintelligent  forms,  and  as  it  were  to  relieve  the 
overflowings  of  his  mind  of  its  devices  of  beauty  and 
wisdom  ! 

If  the  Supreme  Being  were  malevolent,  the  creation 
by  means  of  this  principle  of  universal  activity  would 
present  a  very  different  appearance.  If  he  were  not 
perfect  in  goodness  and  excellence,  we  should  discover 
it  to  ouj  sorrow  in  a  thousand  painful  contrasts  to  the 
present  organization  of  nature.  All  the  harmonies  of 
the  world  would  be  discords:  its  colours  would  be  in- 
appropriate to  their  places,  and  painful  in  their  effects 
upon  our  sight.  As  man  proceeded  to  uncover  the 
hidden  parts  of  creation,  and  to  explore  unknown  re- 
gions, proofs  of  disorder  and  discord,  and  want  of  skill, 
would  meet  the  eye.  The  principle  of  universal  ac- 
tivity, would  every  where  be  felt  to  be  a  lurking  and 


ACTIVE   LIFE.  137 

dangerous  enemy,  against  whose  combinations  there 
was  no  defence,  and  whose  efforts  might  at  any  time 
result  in  the  convulsions  and  desolations  of  the  world. 
Tie  unseen  agency  by  whose  direction  it  was  kept  at 
work,  would  be  feared  and  hated,  and  men  would  live 
in  perpetual  apprehension  of  that  malevolence  or  mis- 
take by  which  conflicting  agencies  or  parts  of  the 
system  might  meet  in  such  tremendous  ruin,  that  an- 
nihilation would  be  a  happy  and  welcome  escape.  How 
different  does  the  present  construction  of  the  physical 
universe  show  the  character  of  God  to  be.  The  inces- 
sant motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  goes  on  in  perfect 
order,  though  the  paths  of  some  are  crossed  by  others, 
which  intersection,  if  it  did  not  occur  at  precise  times, 
would  involve  worlds  in  ruin;  and  though  comets,  with 
dreadful  speed,  shoot  athwart  the  track  of  worlds, 
whose  partial  delay  or  haste  beyond  a  fixed  time  would 
kindle  their  final  fires ;  yet  every  thing  proceeds  with 
perfect  safety,  and  "  He  maketh  peace  in  his  high 
places."  Should  the  power  of  attraction  in  the  sun  be 
accidentally  increased  but  a  little,  the  world  and  all 
that  is  therein  would  be  burned  up.  Or  suppose  that 
the  onward  tendency  of  the  earth  should  slightly  over- 
come the  attraction  of  the  sun,  how  soon  would  land 
and  ocean  return  to  original  confusion  and  darkness, 
and  that  noble  chant  of  "  Creation,"  which  has  awed 
and  delighted  so  many  of  our  race,  would  be  sung  in 
other  worlds  with  additions  of  fearful  and  tremendous 
meaning.  But  though  it  might  be  comparatively  easy 
for  an  omnipotent  Being  to  govern  the  course  of  a 
great  planet,  how  much  more  difficult  does  it  seem  to 
superintend   those    hidden   and   mysterious  agencies, 

s 


138  CREATION    FULL    OF 

which  by  themselves  are  harmless,  but  which,  if  brought 
together,  would  work  destruction  no  less  fearful  than 
that  of  clashing  worlds.  Let  but  the  decomposition  of 
the  gases — those  subtle  and  insidious  powers, — or  their 
combination  proceed  too  rapidly,  or  out  of  right  pro- 
portion, and  this  place  would  become  the  crater  of  a 
volcano,  and  we  and  all  around  us  understand  by  expe- 
rience, the  terrors  of  the  last  days  of  Herculaneum  and 
Pompeii.  There  is  no  feeling  of  safety  when  we  con- 
template the  active  energies  of  the  universe,  until  we 
learn  from  revelation  that  infinite  goodness  and  skill  is 
the  attendant  and  director  of  them  all.  When  we  are 
assured  of  this,  the  more  we  know  of  the  perpetual 
operations  of  the  powers  of  nature  in  working  out  their 
glorious  and  wonderful  results,  the  more  our  enjoyment 
in  contemplating  them  is  increased. 

This  subject  leads  us  by  analogy  to  take  an  interest- 
ing view  of  the  operations  of  this  same  Creator,  in  other 
parts  of  the  universe.  We  cannot  well  suppose  that  a 
planetary  system,  in  which  this  earth  is  one  of  the 
smaller  bodies,  and  all  whose  members  are  governed 
by  the  same  external  laws  with  this  earth,  is  not  per- 
vaded from  star  to  star,  and  from  its  centre  to  its  remotest 
circumference,  by  the  same  principle  of  life  which  is 
manifest  here.  There  are  without  doubt,  therefore, 
other  worlds  where  the  same  infinite  Mind  has  em- 
ployed itself  in  forms  of  wonderful  skill  and  beauty,  it 
may  be,  superior  to  any  thing  in  this  planet.  The 
same  activity  pervades  every  part  of  the  material  or- 
ganization of  those  worlds,  and  multiplies  new  objects 
and  combinations  of  wisdom  and  powder  without  any 
limits.     What  wonders  may  we   know  hereafter,  of 


ACTIVE    LIFE.  I39 

which  we  now  have  no  more  conception  than  the  infant 
in  the  cradle  has  of  the  sciences.  And  yet  how  sub- 
lime the  thought,  that  as  the  mind  of  man  has  made 
such  progress  in  the  discovery  of  great  principles  and 
tlieir  operations  here,  it  is  destined,  if  regenerated,  in 
an  elevated  and  spiritual  state,  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  universe  where  his  present  knowledge  will  ap- 
pear as  inferior,  and  at  the  same  time  as  holding  the 
same  fundamental  place  in  his  knowledge,  as  the 
alphabet  amongst  the  attainments  of  a  man  of  science. 
We  cannot  but  feel  at  times,  that  in  such  a  universe 
we  are  too  inferior  to  attract  the  notice  of  God.  For  in 
addition  to  what  has  been  said,  there  can  be  no  reason- 
able doubt  that  there  is  a  universe  of  spiritual  beings. 
"  The  chariots  of  God  are  twenty  thousand,  even  thou- 
sands of  angels."  If  his  unceasing  skill  is  employed  in 
the  curious  construction  of  inanimate  things;  if  the 
lower  orders  of  creation  are  the  subjects  of  such  exqui- 
site beauty ;  if  the  wonders  of  this  world  are  the  result 
of  his  irrepressible  love  for  what  is  excellent, — can  we 
suppose  that  there  is  not  an  infinite  variety  of  spiritual 
orders,  and  that  intelligent  mind  is  not  a  field  for  the  dis- 
play of  divine  wisdom,  as  well  as  the  material  universe  ? 
There  is  every  reason  from  analogy  to  believe  that  as  life 
exists  in  this  material  universe,  in  every  possible  gra- 
dation, from  the  creeping  thing  and  the  zoophyte  up  to 
man,  so  from  man  upwards,  vast  gradations  of  intelli- 
gent orders  rise,  rank  above  rank,  ended  only  by  the 
burning  seraphim,  so  instinct  with  life  that  like  the 
other  unsullied  works  of  God,  they  cease  not  day  nor 
night  in  his  service  and  praise.  Now  when  we  con- 
sider the  material  heavens,  and  all  the  wonderful  works 


140  CREATION    FULL    OF 

which  God  has  ordained,  and  think  of  a  universe  peo- 
pled with  spirits,  we  cannot  repress  the  feeling,  "what 
is  manl"  nor  shun  the  apprehension  that  we  are  too 
inferior  to  attract  the  notice  of  God. 

This  is  not  the  case,  and  on  the  contrary,  that  which 
is  to  many  minds  the  reason  of  our  inferiority,  may  be 
the  reason  why  man  is  an  object  of  special  favour  with 
God.  We  are  made  of  the  earth.  With  many,  there 
is  nothing  in  this  thought  but  humiliation.  That  which 
makes  it  humiliating  was  not  original  to  man.  Sin  has 
made  us  mortal,  not  God.  "In  his  own  image  created 
He  him."  I  have  said  that  the  material  universe  was 
the  result  of  God's  love  for  all  that  is  beautiful  and  glo- 
rious, and  that  He  has  employed  this  physical  creation 
in  which  to  set  forth  his  power.  May  we  not  suppose, 
then,  that  God  loves  this  material  creation?  When  He 
had  finished  it.  He  saw  that  it  was  very  good :  and  how 
perfect  must  that  be,  with  which  the  author  of  all  that 
is  good  and  glorious  is  satisfied!  The  moral  injury  of 
this  world  has  not  extinguished  the  excellency  of  its 
material  formation,  and  therefore  He  loves  it  as  He  did 
when  He  pronounced  it  very  good.  Now  it  must  be  ob- 
served that  in  the  person  of  man,  God  has  brought  the 
material  and  spiritual  universe  together.  They  are 
both  represented  in  man.  His  physical  organization 
gives  him  a  relation  to  the  universe  of  matter  which 
spiritual  beings,  perhaps,  do  not  possess,  (and  is  it  dis- 
honourable to  be  related  to  such  a  world  of  beauty  and 
glory])  while,  at  the  same  time,  his  spiritual  part  con- 
nects him  with  spiritual  intelligences.  It  seems  easy 
to  perceive  in  this,  a  reason  why  God  should  regard 
man  with  special  favour;   or  having  ascertained  the 


ACTIVE    LIFE.  X41 

fact  of  such  favour  to  him  from  revelation,  it  is  easy  to 
assign  one  probable  reason  for  it.  He  made  man  in  his 
image,  the  last  and  most  perfect  of  his  works,  curiously 
and  wonderfully  illustrating  the  possibility  of  the  union 
of  spirit  with  matter — a  union  of  the  two  great  depart- 
ments of  the  universe — gave  him  this  fair  creation  as 
his  abode,  and  visits  him  with  loving  kindness  and 
tender  mercy;  sent  his  own  Son  to  take  man's  nature, 
and  redeem  him — which  nature  that  Son  will  wear 
in  the  form  of  a  glorious  body  for  ever,  and  thus  dis- 
tinguish man  in  the  universe  from  angelic  beings,  by 
His  own  likeness  to  him  rather  than  to  them.  There 
is  something  in  man,  as  man,  which  God  loves ;  and  is 
it  not  possible  that  He  sees  in  his  complex  formation 
the  most  perfect  exhibition  of  wisdom  and  skill  ?  After 
He  had  made  beings  that  were  purely  spiritual,  and  a 
material  creation.  He  brings  together  all  that  is  excel- 
lent and  glorious  in  them  in  a  new  creature — and  that 
is  MAN.  It  remains  for  us  to  see  hereafter,  whether,  in 
the  wonderful  construction  of  this  world,  the  abode  of 
man,  at  the  birth  of  which  the  morning  stars  sang  to- 
gether and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy — and  in 
the  formation  of  man,  in  his  history  and  redemption, 
the  character  of  God  will  not  be  more  illustriously  de- 
veloped to  the  intelligent  universe,  than  in  any  of  his 
works ;  and  whether  that  incessant  activity  which  per- 
vades this  part  of  creation,  and  fills  the  divine  mind, 
and  which  formed  our  bodies  and  fashioned  our  spirits, 
has  not  chosen  this  world  and  its  inhabitants  "  to  the 
intent  that  unto  principalities  and  powers  in  heavenly 
places  may  be  known  the  manifold  wisdom  of  God." 
If  such  be  his  dignity  and  high  destiny,  let  man  con- 


142       CREATION    FULL    OF    ACTIVE    LIFE. 

form  himself  to  the  great  principle  which  we  have  now 
considered,  that  meets  him  every  where  in  the  world 
which  God  has  given  for  his  abode.  Let  him  be  con- 
stant in  good  and  useful  works  of  body  and  mind ;  move 
on  in  all  his  relations,  public  or  private,  with  a  calm 
and  quiet  energy ;  be  earnest  and  fervent,  like  the  ordi- 
nances of  heaven,  without  excitement  and  noise ;  live 
in  communion  of  spirit  with  all  mankind ;  show  forth 
with  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  all  that  has  breath,  the 
glory  and  love  of  God;  and  though  the  last  of  Jehovah's 
works,  and  made  at  the  evening  of  creation,  he  may  shine 
hereafter  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the  universe  as 
conspicuously  as  the  evening  star  amongst  the  hosts  of 
heaven,  and  for  a  similar  reason,  that  he  is  nearer  to 
the  infinite  Source  of  light  and  love. 

Boston,  (Mass.) 


143 


PEACE. 


BY  MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


"  The  Lord  will  bless  his  people  with  peace." — Psalm  xxix.  11. 

Oh  seek  her  not  in  marble  halls  of  pride, 
Where  gushing  fountains  fling  their  silver  tide, 

Their  wealth  of  freshness  toward  the  summer  sky ; 
The  echoes  of  a  palace  are  too  loud. 
They  but  give  back  the  footsteps  of  the  crowd, 

Who  throng  about  some  idol  throned  on  high, 
Whose  ermined  robe,  and  pomp  of  proud  array, 
But  serve  to  hide  the  false  one's  feet  of  clay. 

Nor  seek  her  form  in  poverty's  low  vale, 

Where,  touched  by  want,  the  bright  cheek  waxes  pale, 

And  the  heart  faints,  with  sordid  cares  opprest; 
Where  pining  discontent  has  left  its  trace 
Deep  and  abiding  in  each  haggard  face. 

Not  there — not  there,  Peace  builds  her  halcyon  nest : 
Wild  revel  scares  her  from  wealth's  towering  dome, 
And  misery  frights  her  from  a  lowly  home. 

Nor  dwells  she  in  the  cloister,  where  the  sage 
Ponders  the  mystery  of  some  time-stained  page, 

Delving  with  feeble  hand  the  classic  mine ; 
Oh,  who  can  tell  the  restless  hope  of  fame. 
The  bitter  yearnings  for  a  deatliless  name. 

That  round  the  student's  heart,  like  serpents,  twine ! 


144  PEACE. 

Ambition's  fever  burns  within  his  breast ; 

Can  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  abide  with  such  a  guest  ] 

Search  not  within  the  city's  crowded  mart, 
Where  the  low,  whispered  music  of  the  heart, 

Is  all  unheard  amid  the  clang  of  gold ; 
Oh  never  yet  did  Peace  her  chaplet  twine, 
To  lay  upon  base  Mammon's  sordid  shrine. 

Where  Earth's  most  precious  things  are  bought  and 
sold; 
Thrown  on  that  pile,  the  "  pearl  of  price"  would  be 
Despised,  because  unfit  for  merchantry. 

Go — hie  thee  to  God's  altar, — kneeling  there, 
List  to  the  mingled  voice  of  fervent  prayer. 

That  swells  around  thee  in  the  sacred  fane ; 
Or  catch  the  solemn  organ's  pealing  note. 
When  grateful  praises  on  the  still  air  float. 

And  the  freed  soul  forgets  earth's  heavy  chain ; 
And  learn  that  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  is  always  found 
In  her  eternal  home  on  holy  ground. 

Brooklyn,  (L.  I.) 


145 


REFLECTION. 


BY  WILLIS  G.  CLARK. 


Well,  the  bright  hours  have  come  and  gone, 
Which  hope  in  gorgeous  hues  array'd ; 

I  hear  no  more  the  viol's  tone, — 
But  from  the  moonlit  forest's  shade, 
"  Floateth  the  night-bird's  serenade  !" 

Sweet  warbler  o'er  thy  folded  wing ! 
Thy  soothing  melodies  I  hear. 

Like  the  first  anthems  born  of  spring. 
Or  voices  from  a  happier  sphere. 

The  calmness  of  this  gentle  scene 

Is  holy — passionless — divine ; 
And  gazing  on  the  waving  green 

Of  glimmering  spray  or  distant  pine. 

Where  massy  wreaths  of  ivy  twine — 
Gazing  on  these  I  melt,  I  burn : 

New  strength  my  drooping  spirits  feel ; 
As  to  yon  glorious  vault  I  turn, 

Where  worlds  in  dazzling  orbits  wheel. 

Spirit  of  Night !  thy  power  profound, 

I  feel  too  deeply  and  too  well ; 
O'er  the  hush'd  vastness  spread  around. 

Thy  brooding  wings  in  silence  dwell : 

Thy  dismal  secrets  who  can  tell  ] 
Perchance  the  pinions  of  the  Dead 

Now  fan  me  with  their  plumage  pale, 

T 


146  REFLECTION. 

As  if  some  angel's  robe  were  spread 
In  airy  dalliance  with  the  gale. 

Yet  while  my  fancy  wakes,  and  springs 

Up  from  the  stream,  the  tree,  the  clod, 
Some  voice  divine,  inspiring,  sings 

The  grandeur  and  the  power  of  God. 

Lo !  at  his  voice  the  forests  nod  ! 
The  whirlwind  rusheth  from  his  lair — 

The  burdened  clouds  in  darkness  ride ; 
And  the  bright  rainbow,  high  and  fair. 

Bends  smiling  o'er  the  torrent's  side ! 

Yes  !  in  His  breath,  the  summer  clouds 
Their  rich  and  damask  wings  expand, 

And  round  the  sunset  float  in  crowds, 
Like  banners  of  the  spirit-land 
Borne  o'er  some  high  celestial  band : 

And  when  I  read  the  written  sky 
Fretted  with  gems  of  golden  fire. 

To  God  my  spirit  makes  reply. 
And  kindling  thoughts  aloft  aspire. 

And  shall  my  heart  refuse  to  join 

The  stars,  the  skies,  his  name  to  praise  1 

Shall  those  far-sparkling  orbs  divine 
Pour  down  their  multitude  of  rays, 
While  my  dull  voice  no  hymn  can  raise 
To  the  great  Source  of  love  and  grace  ! 

Arouse,  my  soul  I  and  let  thy  wings 

Devotion's  heavenward  strength  put  on : 

So  shall  I  reach  those  crystal  springs. 
Which  flow  beneath  th'  Eternal's  throne ! 

Philadelphia,  May,  1837. 


147 


MY  COUNTRY. 


BY  REV.  WILLIAM  S.  PLUMER. 


Patria  alta  reposcit. 


The  discovery  of  America  was  one  of  six  of  the  most 
important  events  which  have  occurred  since  the  spread 
of  the  gospel.     The  first  of  the  six  was  the  invention 
of  the  art  of  printing,  in  A.  D.  1459.     The  second  was 
the  revival  of  letters  under  the  patronage  of  the  family 
of  Medicis,  whose  illustrious  founder  departed  this  life 
in  1464.    The  third  was  the  discovery  of  this  continent, 
in  1492.     The  fourth  was  the  opening  of  trade  with 
the  East  Indies  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  in  1497. 
The  fifth  was  the  glorious  reformation  from  popery, 
which  began  in  1514.     The  sixth  was  the  great  im- 
provement that  about  this  time  took  place  in  naviga- 
tion, through  the  reduction  of  its  principles  to  a  science, 
and  through  the  increased  knowledge  of  the  use  of  the 
mariner's  compass,  which,  though  known  for  more  than 
two  hundred  years,  had  seldom  served  more  than  to 
guide  a  vessel  in  cloudy  weather  along  a  neighbouring 
coast.    These  events,  pregnant  with  incalculably  bene- 
ficial results,  were  crowded  together  in  the  narrow 
space  of  little  more  than  half  a  century ;  and,  mutually 
conspiring   for   successful   operation,  began  to  break 
the  slumbers,  and  expel  the  darkness,  and  unrivet  the 
fetters  of  a  world,  which,  during  a  millennium,   had 


148  MY   COUNTRY. 

never  awaked  but  to  wretchedness,  or  to  some  wild 
exploit  of  maddening  fanaticism.  The  stars  in  the 
firmament,  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and  the  worthies  of 
mankind,  are  often  found  in  groups;  so  here  was  a 
cluster  of  events,  connate  with  a  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
istence of  this  continent,  all  conspiring  to  awaken  high 
hopes  in  behalf  of  a  benighted,  polluted,  enslaved 
world. 

The  character  and  circumstances  of  the  first  settlers 
of  this  country  were  such,  as  to  awaken  the  expectation 
that  God  was  about  to  refir  a  race  of  men  for  a  service 
to  which  the  bulk  of  mankind  were  not  competent.  The 
selectest  part  of  the  population  of  Europe,  for  half  a 
century,  was  emigrating  to  these  states,  and  imparting, 
not,  as  is  often  done,  the  vices,  but  the  virtues  of  their 
birth-place.  The  origin  of  a  large  portion  of  those  who 
settled  the  colonies,  was  no  doubtful  index  to  the  cha- 
racter of  their  future  population.  God  sifted  kingdoms 
to  obtain  the  choicest  wheat  to  sow  in  this  new  and 
boundless  plantation.  These  self-expatriated  and  holy 
men  did  often  and  solemnly  avow  their  purpose  in  se- 
lecting the  wilderness  for  a  home,  to  be  the  attainment, 
for  themselves  and  their  posterity,  of  a  quiet  retreat 
from  the  power  of  a  bloody  hierarchy,  and  the  intoler- 
ance of  a  haughty  monarch ;  and  the  hope  that  God 
would  open  the  way  for  publishing  the  gospel  of  his 
grace  among  the  heathen.  The  severity  and  unhealthi- 
ness  of  the  climate  in  the  colonies ;  the  necessity 
laid  upon  the  people  to  become  famous,  not  in  erecting 
pyramids,  but,  as  Israel's  singer  said,  in  "lifting  up 
axes  against  thick  trees  ;"*  the  absence  of  the  effemi- 

*  Psalm  Ixxiv.  5. 


MY   COUNTRY.  149 

nating-  refinements  and  luxuries  of  the  old  world ;  the 
constant  perils  and  appalling  hardships  of  a  border  war, 
rendered  exceeding  horrible  by  savage  yells  and  still 
more  savage  customs, — all  required  an  amount  of  en- 
ergy, courage,  enterprise  and  perseverance,  never  found 
in  those  whose  views  were  confined  within  one  life- 
time. The  spirit  of  noble  daring  and  high  design  was 
almost  necessarily  connected  with  existence.  To  live 
without  it  was  destitution  of  the  currency  of  society, 
and  indifference  to  the  brightest  examples.  If  the  early 
history  of  Moses  and  Samuel  had  regard  to  the  part 
they  should  act  in  subsequent  life,  no  less  closely  does 
this  nation's  rise  mark  her  out  as  peculiarly  intended 
by  God  for  some  sublime  achievement.  This  nation 
had  rather  a  creation  than  a  birth.  She  began  her  ca- 
reer with  the  elements  of  a  vigorous  character,  and  a 
healthy  constitution,  and  a  matured  intellect,  like 
Adam  coming  ripe  and  finished  directly  from  the  hand 
of  God.  We  had  not,  as  most  nations,  an  infancy  and 
a  childhood  of  untutored  rudeness  and  imbecility,  out 
of  which  it  required  centuries  to  emerge.  Let  us  em- 
blazon on  our  escutcheon  the  sentiment  so  often  re- 
peated by  our  fathers,  that  neither  gain,  nor  pleasure, 
nor  ease,  nor  honour,  but  the  glory  of  God,  in  the  main- 
tenance and  propagation  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus, 
was  and  ought  to  be  the  reigning  motive  with  all  whose 
souls  had  dilated  with  the  love  of  God,  and  whose  na- 
tional inheritance  was  solid  freedom. 

The  nature  of  our  political  and  civil  institutions  is 
another  item  in  a  correct  estimate  of  national  duty  and 
national  destiny.  Our  untrammelled  freedom  allows 
us  the  use  of  speech  on  all  political,  philosophical,  his- 
torical and  moral  subjects.     Our  press  is  without  cen- 


150  ^Y   COUNTRY. 

sorship,  save  that  of  public  opinion,  and  restrained  only 
by  the  rights  of  personal  reputation.  Our  exemption 
from  burdensome  taxation  for  the  support  of  a  heredi- 
tary monarchy  and  a  perpetual  nobility,  and  their  ten 
thousand  minions,  leaves  to  the  industrious  his  earn- 
ings, and  to  the  economical  his  savings  for  any  work  of 
beneficence  to  which  his  love  of  country,  of  man,  or  of 
God,  may  prompt  him.  In  this  land,  who  will  may 
aspire,  and  to  what  he  will.  Education,  alike  attain- 
able to  the  rich  and  the  poor,  and  the  habits  and  senti- 
ments of  society  inviting  all  to  deeds  of  greatness, 
every  noble  purpose  may  be  cherished  with  hope  of 
final  success.  Let  any  youth  of  this  land  design  to 
belt  the  globe  with  a  hallowed  influence,  and  if  life  be 
spared  it  may  be  done.  Samuel  J.  Mills  "  formed  a 
purpose  to  feel  and  act  efficiently  for  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  human  race  never  baptized  by  the  Chris- 
tian name,"*  and  he  executed  his  purpose,  though  he 
numbered  on  earth  less  than  a  moiety  of  the  three  score 
and  ten  years  appointed  to  mortals. 

It  is  also  true,  that  the  simplicity,  purity  and  effi- 
ciency of  our  religious  institutions,  mark  us  out  for 
high  exploits  of  mercy.  Were  there  amongst  us  a 
lordly  priesthood,  of  scandalous  life  or  doubtful  piety, 
to  maintain  whose  civil  rank  the  evangelical  must  con- 
sume their  days  and  nights  in  toil,  the  energies  of  the 
church  would  be  entirely  crippled.  It  is  a  charitable 
estimate  of  human  character  which  regards  one  in  ten 
of  the  ecclesiastics  of  the  purest  established  churches 
as  willing  subjects  of  the  first  law  of  Messiah,  which 
is  holiness  to  the  Lord.    Every  church  and  state  estab- 

*  Life  of  Mills,  p.  25. 


MY   COUNTRY.  151 

lishment  is  an  incubus  on  the  best  feelings  and  migh- 
tiest energies  of  all  who  fall  under  its  hated  power. 
It  is  the  great  Upas  tree,  whose  leaves,  and  blossoms, 
and  very  shadow,  are  at  this  day  scattering  death,  and 
barrenness,  and  consuming  blight,  on  protestant  Europe. 
But  in  this  land,  the  divine  Author  of  Christianity  hath 
said  to  his  church,  whom  he  hath  "  betrothed  to  him- 
self in  righteousness,  and  in  judgment,  and  in  loving 
kindness,  and  in  mercies,  and  in  faithfulness,"*  "  Thou 
art  loosed  from  thy  infirmity,"  None  need  wait  the 
nod  of  a  mitred  or  crowned  head,  ere  he  can  go  and 
execute  his  benevolent  purposes  towards  his  fellow  men 
of  every  clime. 

The  extent  of  our  territory,  the  fertility  of  our  soil, 
the  variety  of  our  climate,  and  the  abundance  of  our 
resources,  promise  an  increase  of  population,  an  amount 
of  wealth,  and  a  range  of  talent  and  character,  suffi- 
cient, if  rightly  directed,  to  compass  any  design  which 
the  largest  benevolence  hath  ever  formed.  The  United 
States  could  this  year  pay  twenty  millions,  and  enlarge 
her  gifts  a  million  annually  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
and  could  spare  thousands  of  her  sons  and  daughters  to 
works  of  mercy  in  distant  nations,  and  yet  increase  in 
all  that  makes  a  people  great  and  good,  more  rapidly 
than  any  other  nation  is  now  doing.  About  a  century 
ago,  a  little  company  of  six  hundred  souls  on  the  con- 
tinent of  Europe  began  to  send  messengers  of  salvation 
to  the  tribes  on  "  Greenland's  icy  mountains,"  and  to 
the  besotted  negro  of  South  Africa  and  the  West  In- 
dies. The  nation  of  Greenlanders  is  now  Christian, 
only  one  hundred  and  eighty-two  souls  among  more 

*  Hosea  ii.  19,  20. 


152  MY  COUNTRY. 

than  six  thousand  being  unbaptized.  More  than  forty 
thousand  negroes  now  raise  their  hands  in  prayer,  and 
their  voices  in  praise,  unto  Him  that  hath  loved  them. 
The  wild  Indian  of  America,  and  the  fierce  fugitive  of 
Surinam,  averse  to  all  subjection,  have  by  the  same 
people  been  led  joyfully  to  wear  the  yoke  of  Christian 
obedience.  Now  the  numbers  of  these  missionary 
people  are  incredibly  increased,  and  their  wealth  is 
likely  to  prove  their  greatest  bane.  Why  may  not 
the  church  of  God  in  this  land  imitate  an  example  so 
noble,  and  with  corresponding  results]  Our  soil,  under 
wise  cultivation,  will  yield  to  one  labourer  the  bread 
of  seven.  Nor  may  we  forget,  that  having  "  every 
variety  of  temperature,  from  the  snows  and  barrenness 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  perpetual  bloom  of  the 
Floridas,"  and  institutions  of  learning  and  religion  all 
over  our  widely  extended  territory,  we  shall  be  able  to 
furnish  men  with  constitutions  prepared  for  the  severi- 
ties of  a  winter  in  Kamschatka  or  Siberia,  or  for  the 
sickly  vapours  of  the  Gold  and  Coromandel  coasts. 

From  the  combined  influence  of  moral  and  physical 
causes,  Americans  are  distinguished  for  fertility  of  in- 
vei  tion,  for  copiousness  of  resources,  and  for  facility  of 
self-adaptation  to  pressing  exigencies  and  unexpected 
reverses.  Should  any  doubt  the  truth  of  this  remark, 
let  him  study  the  history  of  the  frontier  settlements,  or 
visit  the  patent  offices  of  this  land,  and  he  will  doubt 
no  longer.  This  versatility  of  character  is  one  of  the 
most  important  qualities  in  devising  and  executing 
magnificent  and  difficult  enterprises,  and  is  never  to  be 
overlooked  in  the  estimate  of  human  duty.  Can  it  then 
be  believed,  that  all  this  fertility  was  designed  only  for 
the  production  of  thorns  and  briars  1     Or  was  there  no 


MY   COUNTRY.  153 

design  in  its  bestowmenf?  Doth  the  Creator  intend, 
that,  so  soon  as  we  shall  have  conquered  our  "  forests, 
reaching"  from  eternity  to  eternity,"  and  completed  our 
great  national  improvements,  we  shall  sink  down  into 
oriental  softness  and  stupidity  ?  Or  will  Jehovah  an- 
nihilate our  national  character,  that  he  may  reduce  us 
to  the  stature  of  the  pigmies  of  other  and  older  coun- 
tries 1  Nay.  We  believe  this  gift  of  God  is  without 
repentance. 

The  scriptures  direct  our  attention  to  a  commercial 
people  as  likely  to  act  a  prominent  part  in  blessing  the 
world.  "  The  ships  of  Tarshish  shall  first  bring  thy 
sons  from  far."*  On  this  score  our  nation  has  a  vast 
and  growing  power  for  good  or  evil.  The  trade  of  the 
Black  Sea  w^as  not  open  six  weeks,  until  our  busy  mer- 
chantmen were  penetrating  every  indentation  on  its 
coast.  Even  England  must  increase  her  efforts,  or  in 
a  quarter  of  a  century  the  daughter  will  wear  the  mo- 
ther's robes.  It  is  hardly  conceivable  what  power  is 
connected  with  commerce.  The  imposing  appearance 
of  a  gallant  ship,  the  intelligence  supposed  to  belong 
to  her  officers,  the  facility  thus  furnished  for  inter- 
communication with  distant  nations,  the  new  and 
striking  examples  thus  held  forth,  all  combine  to  make 
its  effects  lasting  and  important.  Behold  how  com- 
merce hath  covered  with  horrible  dreariness  a  thousand 
leagues  of  African  coast,  and  let  in  the  burning  waves 
of  intemperance  on  islands  just  beginning  to  emerge 
from  the  barbarism  of  centuries.  Take  another  example. 
Time  was,  when  Venice  alone  did  more  to  form  the 
manners  of  the  world,  to  reap  the  wealth  of  the  whole 

*  Isaiah  Ix.  9. 

u 


154  MY   COUNTRY. 

earth,  and  to  guide  the  destinies  of  man,  than  all  north- 
ern Europe.  Commerce,  christianized  in  its  conduct 
and  objects,  is  unquestionably  destined  to  work  wonders 
in  filling  the  world  with  the  knowledge  of  God.  The 
ports  of  the  islands  of  the  sea  and  of  the  populous  em- 
pires of  the  East,  are  open  to  our  "swift  ships,"  laden 
with  the  treasures  of  the  gospel,  and  going  on  errands 
of  salvation.     And  shall  tliey  not  be  entered? 

It  is  also  true,  that  while  the  despots  of  Europe  are 
not  without  jealous  fears  towards  this  land,  yet  as  a 
general  thing,  to  be  an  American  is  to  have  a  passport 
to  the  human  heart.  Few  of  the  tribes  of  earth  have 
learned  to  regard  us  as  invading  conquerors,  or  haughty 
masters.  Our  insolence  hath  not  vexed,  though  our 
enterprise  hath  aroused  mankind.  No  "old  hatred" 
severs  us  from  any  nation.  Our  remoteness  prevents 
all  dread  of  our  arms.  Our  history  quells  suspicions  of 
our  designs.  So  far  as  distinctly  known,  we  have  a 
"  good  name,  which  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  riches." 
With  individuals  credit  is  wealth — with  nations  a  good 
reputation  is  power.  For  what  end  hath  God  entrusted 
to  us  this  talent  1  That  we  should  hide  it  in  a  napkin  ] 
That  we  should  glory  in  it]  Or  that  we  should  em- 
ploy it  for  the  spread  of  his  truth?  Unquestionably 
for  the  last  of  these  purposes. 

Ever  since  the  first  settlement  of  this  country,  God 
hath  blessed  us  with  glorious  revivals  of  religion. 
About  a  century  ago  a  new  era  began  in  these  import- 
ant dispensations  of  grace.  And  about  forty  years  ago, 
another  and  yet  more  remarkable  era  commenced  in 
these  displays  of  mercy.  And  although,  for  the  pre- 
sent, darkness  covers  our  prospects  for  a  little,  yet  will 
we  believe  that  God  will  "revive  us  again,  that  his 


MY   COUNTRY.  155 

people  may  rejoice  in  him ;"  and  that  it  shall  often 
again  happen  that  "  into  our  assemblies  there  shall 
come  one  that  believeth  not,  and  the  secrets  of  his 
heart  shall  be  made  manifest ;  and  so  falling-  down  on 
his  face,  he  will  worship  God,  and  report  that  God  is  in 
us  of  a  truth."*  That  these  glorious  scenes  are  well 
calculated  to  yield  a  harvest  of  the  very  best  specimens 
of  practical,  laborious  and  enterprising  Christians,  all 
experience,  many  candid  and  eminent  men,  and  sound 
philosophy  alike  testify.  Revival  converts  at  the  first 
filled  the  earth  with  the  song  of  redemption.  And  re- 
vival converts  shall  again  tell  the  story  of  redeeming 
love  to  the  myriads  of  dying  men.  Just  in  proportion 
as  God  blesses  a  people  with  glorious  revivals,  does  he 
prepare  and  call  them  to  the  highest  achievements  of 
Christian  benevolence.  America,  therefore,  may  not 
keep  silence  and  slumber,  when  the  salvation  of  the 
world  draweth  nigh,  without  incurring  unparalleled 
condemnation. 

The  high  respect  we  have  acquired  in  recent  efibrts 
for  founding  a  mighty  commonwealth,  in  executing 
plans  for  the  relief  of  human  wo  and  the  prevention  of 
human  guilt,  and  in  acquiring  a  great  national  influ- 
ence, must  enter  into  our  final  account.  Often  of  late 
have  the  oldest  powers  of  Europe  listened  to  the  in- 
struction of  our  example,  or  sent  messengers  to  inquire 
after  our  wisdom.  France  hath  not  been  ashamed  to 
ask  how  she  may  best  regard  and  treat  those  who  by 
crime  may  have  forfeited  their  claims  to  liberty,  but 
not  to  humanity.  Great  Britain  and  Prussia,  in  the 
paroxysms  and  throes  of  their  torment,  gladly  adopt 

*  1  Cor.  xiv.  25. 


X56  MY   COUNTRY. 

our  simple  yet  mighty  expedient  for  rolling  back  the 
burning  tide  of  intemperance.  The  Autocrat  of  Russia, 
and  his  deadly  foe,  the  Grand  Turk,  alike  reward  our 
superior  skill  in  naval  architecture.  Our  improvements 
in  the  mechanic  arts  are  supplanting  the  models  which 
ages  had  been  endeavouring  to  perfect.  Why  hath  the 
King  of  nations  given  us  all  this  respectability,  but  that 
we  may  have  both  the  disposition  and  ability  to  employ 
it  for  the  furtherance  of  his  gospel  ? 

Time  will  not  allow  a  detail  of  causes,  but  the  fact 
may  be  stated,  that  our  plans  of  evangelization,  while 
undoubtedly  capable  of  improvement,  are  yet  better 
than  any  models  furnished  by  our  transatlantic  brethren. 
We  have  experimented  on  a  greater  variety  of  charac- 
ter, and  on  a  greater  extent  of  plan.  We  have  the 
world  more  distinctly  before  us.  The  character  of  our 
missionaries  is  confessedly  superior.  An  eminent 
English  missionary  says,  "  So  far  as  I  have  had  the 
means  of  judging,  I  believe,  generally  speaking,  that 
the  American  missionaries  are  in  some  important  points 
superior  to  our  own."*  The  Bishop  of  Calcutta  says, 
"  The  missionaries  from  America  are  filling  India, 
Ceylon  and  Burmah.  They  seem  able,  well  informed, 
pious,  devoted,  self-denying  men,  with  little  or  no  party 
spirit.  If  they  proceed  as  they  do,  and  England  is  as 
tardy  as  she  now  is  in  sending  out  missionaries,  America 
will  convert  the  world.  I  have  been  much  struck  with 
the  superior  talents  and  piety  of  those  whom  I  have 
seen.  The  immense  population  of  your  United  States, 
their  vigour  of  intellect,  their  simplicity  of  manners, 
appear  to  mark  them  out  for  great  things  in  the  diffusive 
work  of  the  gospel  of  Christ,  our  Lord." 

*  Dr.  Pliilips's  Letter,  p.  24. 


MY   COUNTRY.  157 

That  the  abundance  of  the  sea  and  the  forces  of  the 
Gentiles  shall  be  converted  unto  God  is  certain,  for  the 
mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it.  That  this  work  is 
to  be  effected  by  human  instrumentality,  the  scriptures 
constantly  affirm.  That  some  one  nation  will  take  a 
very  prominent  part  in  the  commencement  of  the  work, 
is  at  least  probable.  But  England,  with  her  thousand 
millions  of  national  debt,  her  privileged  orders,  her  vast 
fleets  armed  for  dreadful  war,  and  her  immense  stand- 
ing army,  with  a  monarch  receiving  from  his  subjects 
a  million  sterling  annually,  will  hardly  be  prepared  for 
the  work.  Russia  is  a  thousand  years  behind  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  In  her  icy  dominions  benevolence  is  con- 
gealed into  frozen  rocks.  Her  name  is  dreadful.  Her 
institutions  are  granite.  Greece  is  in  her  infancy :  a 
century  will  hardly  give  her  the  vigour  of  manhood. 
Prussia  may  now  and  then  yield  a  world-stirring  Gutz- 
laff,  but  she  hath  no  commerce.  France  is  still  poi- 
soned with  abounding  secret  infidelity.  Other  Catholic 
countries  will  perhaps  be  the  last  to  renounce  idol- 
atry. It  is  a  mark  of  th6  Apocalyptic  Beast  that  he 
never  repents,  but  must  be  consumed  with  the  spirit  of 
Jehovah's  mouth,  and  destroyed  with  the  brightness  of 
his  coming.*  Earth  shall,  however,  be  evangelized. 
Who,  then,  shall  lead  on  the  "  sacramental  host  of  God's 
elect,"  if  America  hold  back] 

General  views,  similar  to  these,  have  been  enter- 
tained by  many  of  the  soberest  and  soundest  minds 
both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe.  We  present  the 
views  of  but  one.  He  is  still  living,  honoured  by  the 
liberal  and  intelligent  Christian  of  every  nation.     He 

*  Compare  Kev.  xvi.  11 :  and  2  Thess.  ii.  8. 


158  MY   COUNTRY. 

says — "America  is  to  modern  Europe,  what  its  western 
colonies  were  to  Greece — the  land  of  aspirations  and 
dreams,  the  country  of  daring  enterprise,  and  the  asy- 
lum of  misfortune ;  which  receives  alike  the  exile  and 
the  adventurer,  the  discontented  and  the  aspiring,  and 
promises  to  all  a  freer  life  and  a  fresher  nature.  The 
European  emigrant  might  believe  himself  as  one  trans- 
ported to  a  new  world,  governed  by  new  laws,  and 
finds  himself  raised  in  the  scale  of  being:  the  pauper 
is  maintained  by  his  own  labour,  the  hired  labourer 
works  on  his  own  account,  and  the  tenant  is  changed 
into  a  proprietor.  The  world  has  not  witnessed  an 
emigration  like  that  taking  place  to  America, — so  ex- 
tensive in  its  range,  so  immeasurable  in  its  conse- 
quences,— since  the  dispersion  of  mankind ;  or  perhaps 
since  the  barbarians  broke  into  the  empire. 

"A  moral  influence  is  withdrawing  their  subjects 
from  the  old  and  worn-out  governments  of  Europe,  and 
hurrying  them  across  the  Atlantic,  to  participate  in  the 
renovated  youth  of  the  new  republics  of  the  west ;  and 
hordes  of  emigrants  are  continually  swarming  off",  as 
ceaseless  in  their  passage,  and  crowded,  and  unreturn- 
ing,  as  the  travellers  to  eternity.  Even  those  who  are 
forced  to  remain  behind,  feel  a  melancholy  restlessness, 
like  a  bird  whose  wing  is  crippled  at  the  season  of  mi- 
gration. Every  change  in  America  has  occasioned  a 
corresponding  change  in  Europe :  the  discovery  of  it, 
overturned  the  systems  of  the  ancients,  and  gave  a  new 
face  to  adventure  and  to  knowledge;  the  opening  of  its 
mines  produced  a  revolution  in  property;  and  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  United  States  overturned  the  monarchy 
of  France,  and  set  fire  to  a  train  which  has  not  yet  fully 
exploded.     At  every  expansion  of  American  influence. 


MY   COUNTRY.  159 

the  older  countries  are  destined  to  undergo  new  changes. 
The  American  states  will  every  year  exert  a  wider 
sway  over  the  minds  of  men,  and  hold  out  to  them  a 
more  illustrious  example  of  prosperity  and  freedom.  In 
little  more  than  a  century,  the  United  States  must  con- 
tain a  population  ten  times  greater  than  has  ever  yet 
been  animated  by  the  spirit  and  energy  of  a  free  go- 
vernment; and  in  less  than  a  century  and  a  half,  the 
new  world  will  not  be  able  to  contain  its  inhabitants, 
but  will  pour  them  forth  upon  the  shores  of  less  civil- 
ized nations,  till  the  earth  is  subdued  to  knowledge, 
and  filled  with  the  abodes  of  free  and  civilized  men. 
But  the  spirit  and  imitation  of  American  freedom  will 
spread  still  more  rapidly  and  widely  than  its  power. 
No  force  can  crush  the  sympathy  that  already  exists, 
and  is  continually  augmenting  between  Europe  and 
the  new  world.  The  eyes  of  the  oppressed  are  even 
now  turning  wistfully  to  the  land  of  freedom,  and  the 
kings  of  the  continent  already  regard  with  awe  and 
disquietude  the  new  Rome  rising  in  the  West — the 
foreshadows  of  whose  greatness  yet  to  be,  are  extend- 
ing dark  and  heavy  over  their  dominions,  and  obscuring 
the  lustre  of  their  thrones."* 

Such  being  the  posture  of  affairs ;  our  nation  growing 
with  unexampled  rapidity  in  numbers,  wealth,  and 
power;  what  shall  employ  usf  When  other  nations 
have  gained  power,  they  have  employed  themselves  in 
making  conquests;  but  we  have  already  more  territory 
than  we  can  occupy.  Or  they  have  plunged  themselves 
into  long  and  bloody  wars;  but  the  time  is  near  at  hand, 
when  "they  shall  beat  their  swords  into  ploughshares 

*  Douglass  on  the  Advancement  of  Society,  gp.  71,  72,  73,  292,  293. 


160  MY   COUNTRY. 

and  their  spears  into  pruning-hooks :  nation  shall  not 
lifl  up  sword  against  nation,  neither  shall  they  learn 
war  any  more."*  In  many  countries,  heathen  and  Ca- 
tholic, the  number  of  holydays,  added  to  excessive  tax- 
ation, keeps  the  people  poor  and  broken  in  spirit;  but 
the  majority  of  the  people  of  these  states  will  hardly 
consent  to  consume  time  and  substance  in  the  fooleries 
of  a  sottish  superstition.  Once,  the  spirit  of  chivalry, 
and  bloodshed,  and  martyrdom,  and  fanaticism,  strongly 
combined  to  enlist  mighty  potentates  for  the  rescue  of 
the  Holy  Land.  Whether  a  plodding  and  practical 
people  could  ever  be  summoned  to  a  distant  shore,  on 
some  wild  crusade,  there  to  perish  of  plague,  to  burn 
in  fever,  and  die  in  battle,  is  not  gravely  problematical. 
There  was  a  period  when  men  were  willing  to  spend 
all  the  harvest-time  of  life  in  culling  from  heaps  of  rub- 
bish a  few  quaint  sentences,  and  puerile  antitheses,  and 
scholastic  dogmas;  then  writing  a  book,  and  bidding 
the  world  farewell.  But  the  guardian  angel  of  humanity 
hath  sworn  that  such  time  shall  be  no  longer.  Nor  can 
you  persuade  the  millions  of  this  Union  innocuously  to 
spend  their  time,  "  doing  nothing  else  but  to  hear  and 
to  tell  some  new  thing."f  Our  young  men  cannot  be 
induced  to  consume  the  vigour  of  youth  and  their  patri- 
monial substance,  in  making  the  ascent  of  the  rugged 
hill  of  science  and  literature,  rewarded  only  with  the 
privilege  of  plucking  by  the  way  some  flower  of  rheto- 
ric, or  with  the  hope  of  seeing  at  the  end  of  their  toils 
some  new  planet ;  and  there,  far  above  the  clouds  of 
popular  ignorance  and  vulgar  prejudice,  sitting  down 
on  a  barren  rock,  and  shivering  in  melancholy  inutility 

*  Isaiah  ii.  4.  t  Acts  xvii.  21. 


MY   COUNTRY.  16X 

and  bleak  loneliness.  Americans  will  do  something — 
something  great  for  good  or  for  evil.  Forbid  them  to 
extend  the  conquests  of  benevolence,  to  purify  the 
haunts  of  vice,  to  reform  the  habitations  of  cruelty — 
hold  them  back  from  a  world's  conversion,  and  soon  the 
excess  of  wealth  will  breed  luxury,  corruption,  and  de- 
votion to  shows,  and  games,  and  sensuality.  The  na- 
tional mind  under  deep-toned  excitement — the  national 
talent  under  high  cultivation — the  learned  professions 
crowded  to  excess — political  contests  waxing  more  and 
more  fierce ;  faction,  that  common  grave  of  republics, 
will  begin  her  work  of  death — riots  will  abound — dis- 
union will  hasten  on — the  tocsin  of  civil  war  will  send 
a  terrible  blast  to  every  fireside, — and  the  withering 
curse  of  Meroz  will  make  us  to  consume  away  like  the 
fat  of  lambs. 

To  show  the  practical  bearing  of  this  discussion  to 
the  present  generation,  it  may  be  stated,  that  we  have 
constantly  multiplying  proofs  that  the  harvest  of  the 
earth  is  ripening  apace.  Physical  strength  and  moral 
power — in  other  words,  numbers  on  the  one  part,  and 
justice,  truth  and  right  on  the  other — never  before,  as 
now,  thundered  forth  their  resistless  demands  in  the 
halls  of  legislators  and  the  cabinet  of  kings.  Their 
cry  must  be  heard — it  is  heard ;  already  the  gloom  of 
despair  hath  bound  the  demon  of  tyranny.  Men  once 
wrapped  in  reckless  stupidity,  collect  in  little  groups 
or  dignified  assemblies  to  discourse  on  the  state  of  em- 
pires, the  balance  of  power,  the  rights  of  man,  and  all 
things  high  and  eternal.  All  orders  of  men,  from  the 
meek  disciple  of  the  despised  Nazarene  to  the  vile 
atheist,  are  industriously  wielding  the  power  of  speech, 
and  the  greater  power  of  the  press,  in  propagating 

X 


162  MY    COUNTRY. 

their  opinions.  Political  sagacity  once  might  venture 
to  foretell  the  course  of  events  for  a  century  to  come ; 
but  of  late,  all  discerning-  statesmen  are  "  lying  pro- 
phets." Their  very  wisdom  misleads  them.  The  fifth 
vial  has,  it  vi^ould  seem,  for  forty  years  been  expending 
its  wrath  on  the  seat  of  the  Beast;  and  the  river 
Euphrates,  the  Ottoman  power,  is  being  dried  up.  Both 
truth  and  error  are  becoming  fully  organized.  Old 
systems  of  false  religion  are  becoming  intolerable,  and 
sinking  into  decrepitude.  "  Now  that  which  decayeth 
and  waxeth  old  is  ready  to  vanish  away."*  The  man 
of  sin,  the  false  prophet,  and  the  champions  of  idolatry, 
are  perplexed  with  fear  of  change.  While  the  spirit, 
that  worketh  in  the  children  of  disobedience,  never 
maddened  some  minds  to  a  higher  phrensy  by  the  sor- 
cery of  sin — yet  that  Spirit,  which  maketh  of  quick 
understanding  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  since  the  days 
of  the  apostles,  never  gave  us  men  of  more  might,  or 
valour,  or  success,  than  some  who  adorn  and  bless  this 
age. 

Why  then,  we  ask,  are  matters  in  this  posture  ]  and 
why  do  all  these  facilities  and  qualities  concentrate  in 
America!  Why  hath  God  so  highly  exalted  both  our 
state  and  our  hopes'?     What  do  these  things  teach 7 

but  that  THE  CHURCH  IN  THESE   UnITED    StATES  OUGHT 

to  regard  herself  as  called  to  bear  a  prominent 
part  in  the  work  of  converting  the  world  unto 
God. 

Richmond,  (Va.) 

*  Ilel).  viii.  13. 


163 


THE   SISTER    ROSE. 

BY  DANIEL  B.  WOOD. 

The  "dew  of  morning"  is  a  beautiful  emblem  of  holiness;  and, 
when  that  dew  bathes  the  young  rose-buds,  and  makes  them  glitter 
fresh  and  bright  in  the  rising  sun,  it  seems  a  touching  emblem  of 
Tfouthful  piety.  As  the  '' dew  o{  morning,''  rather  than  that  of  even- 
ing, is  chosen  to  represent  the  "  beauty  of  holiness,"  we  cannot  but 
think  that  piety  most  lovely  which  we  see  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  composing  the  following  verses,  the  writer  has  in  remembrance 
an  accomplished  young  lady,  who  possesses  the  art  of  embalming 
every  action  and  word  in  the  memory,  by  her  winning  manner,  her 
sweet  look,  and  her  gentle  voice.  He  has  seen  such  an  one  lead  away 
a  younger  sister  to  her  night's  repose, 

"  As  a  flower  at  set  of  sun." 

She  would  press  the  young  innocent  to  her  bosom  with  the  soft  ten- 
derness of  a  sister's  love,  and  her  "  doctrine  would  drop  as  the  small 
rain,  and  distil  as  the  dew,  which  gathers  in  bright  drops  upon  the 
opening  petals  of  the  young  bud."  She  would  gently  bring  her  to 
that  Saviour,  who  once  took  such  children  in  his  arms  and  ))lessed 
them.  Then  would  their  voices  sweetly  commingle  in  some  song  of 
thanksgiving  and  adoration.  Does  not  God  look  with  approbation 
upon  this  lovely  being,  as  she  lifts  the  heart  and  bends  the  knee  by 
her  sister's  couch,  and  holds  intimate  communion  with  the  Father 
of  their  spirits  ?  Do  not  the  angels  hover  with  pleasure  over  such  a 
kindred  spirit  and  scene  ? 

The  infant  bud,  which  scarcely  shows 
Those  lovely  tints  we  soon  shall  see, 

How  know  we,  that  the  fairest  rose 
That  infant  bud  will  ope  to  be  ? 

On  the  same  stem,  and  side  by  side, 
A  youthful  sister  rose  is  seen. 


164  THE    SISTER    ROSE. 

With  every  charm,  but  void  of  pride — 
Of  all  the  flowers  the  lovely  queen. 

Methinks  that  infant  bud  will  learn 
Of  her  sweet  sister  how  to  grow  ; 

The  charms  and  fragrance  we  discern 
In  her,  example  will  bestow. 

Thus  you  may  see  the  reason,  why 
Our  sweet  and  happy  infant  friend, 

Who  seems  an  opening  hud  of  joy, 
Will  each  soft  charm  and  virtue  blend. 

A  sister  rose  blooms  by  her  side. 

Lovely  and  fragrant — OA,  how  blest 

That  spot  with  such  a  flower  its  pride. 
That  home  of  such  a  gift  possest ! 

Prayer  is  the  fragrance  angels  love, 
And  piety  the  softest  bloom : 

That  bloom  adorns  the  fields  above — 
That  fragrance  lives  beyond  tlie  tomb. 

How  happy,  then,  the  sweet  employ 
To  rear  a  plant  for  God  on  high ! 

Angels  must  view  the  sight  with  joy ; 
A  sister  cherish'd  for  the  sky. 

Sister  !  as  nightly  thus  you  bend, 

Wat'ring  your  bud  with  heavenly  dew. 
Heaven's  choicest  blessing  will  descend 
In  a  refreshing  shower  on  you. 
Theological  Seminary,  Audover,  1837. 


165 


CONSOLATIONS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

BY  WILLIAM  G.  GODDARD. 

Christianity  is  evidently  a  restorative  dispensation. 
Contemplating  man  as  estranged  from  holiness  and 
happiness,  it  offers  to  his  acceptance  the  means  of  moral 
renovation,  and  the  joys  of  everlasting  life.  This  is 
the  grand  central  trutli  in  that  system  of  truths  w^hich 
the  Bible  has  revealed.  In  adoration  of  its  sublime 
efficacy,  the  penitents  upon  earth  pour  forth  their  voices 
of  thanksgiving,  and  the  unfallen  spirits  in  heaven 
touch  their  golden  harps  to  songs  of  unending  praise. 
It  is,  however,  not  alone  for  this  distinctive  character- 
istic of  Christianity,  that  the  tribute  of  devout  acknow- 
ledgment may  be  challenged.  Sorrow,  as  well  as  sin, 
being  the  inheritance  of  our  race,  we  need  not  only  to 
be  purified,  but  to  be  consoled.  Dark  and  agitated  in- 
deed w^ould  be  our  passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
if  Christianity  had  not  unsealed  a  fountain  of  eternal 
illumination  and  repose ;  if,  over  our  heritage  of  wo,  it 
had  not  shed  the  light  of  its  peaceful  hopes,  and  invited 
afflicted  man  to  look  for  comfort  to  its  never-failing 
consolations.  It  is  not  only  amid  the  overwhelming 
calamities  of  life  that  these  consolations  are  needed,  or 
that  their  power  to  soothe  and  to  sustain  comes  to  be 
experienced.  Under  circumstances  of  less  aggravated 
trial,  they  are  endowed  with  an  unobtrusive  but  trium- 
phant energy.     Amid  mystery  and  change — in  seasons 


IQQ  CONSOLATIONS 

of  doubt,  and  loneliness,  and  depression,  the  worn  spirit 
flees  to  the  consolations  of  the  gospel,  as  the  oriental 
traveller  fleeth  to  "  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land."  This  latter  view  of  the  subject  it  may 
not  be  unprofitable  very  briefly  to  illustrate. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  discoveries  of  science,  and 
all  the  revelations  of  the  Bible,  how  wide  is  the  do- 
minion of  mystery  throughout  the  universe  of  matter 
and  of  mind  !  The  maxim  of  the  schoolmen — omnia 
exeunt  in  mysterium — will  not  be  disputed  by  any  one 
who  is  acquainted  with  the  physical  and  moral  econo- 
mies which  God  has  established.  However  minute  and 
exact  may  be  the  observations  of  modern  science — 
however  expansive  her  generalizations — and  however 
splendid  her  achievements,  she  is  often  compelled  to 
the  humbling  confession  that  she  can  advance  no  far- 
ther ;  and  that,  in  a  multitude  of  cases,  naught  remains 
to  her  but  the  duty  of  patient  thought,  or  diffident  con- 
jecture, or  mute  admiration.  In  the  constitution  of  the 
moral  world,  the  element  of  mystery  is  also  to  be  found. 
Minds  of  a  peculiar  organization,  it  is  to  be  feared,  are 
sometimes  betrayed  into  sadness,  and  doubt,  and  despair, 
by  a  partial  contemplation  of  what  is  mysterious  in  the 
structure  and  arrangements  of  the  material  world ;  or 
in  that  moral  government  which  God  in  his  wisdom 
has  established.  They  seem  to  forget  that  mystery  is 
relative  only  to  the  faculties  of  created  beings ;  that  it 
is  perhaps  necessary  to  the  purposes  of  our  moral  pro- 
bation ;  and  that,  however  it  may  shroud  the  throne  of 
the  Eternal,  it  never  obscures  the  path  of  duty.  Such 
minds  are  perplexed,  nay,  sometimes  appalled,  by  the 
varied  forms  of  physical  suffering,  and  by  the  fearful 
exhibitions  of  moral  evil  which  abound  in  tliis  our  world. 


OF    CHRISTIANITY.  IQJ 

In  anguish  of  spirit,  they  are  tempted  ahnost  to  believe 
that  the  Creator  has  forgotten  to  be  gracious,  and  that, 
in  righteous  indignation,  he  hath  surrendered  up  this 
revolted  province  of  his  empire  to  the  awards  of  a  cruel 
and  inexorable  destiny.  Now,  to  all  such  thoughtful 
and  perplexed  observers  of  the  constitution  of  things, 
Christianity  is  fitted  to  impart  the  most  grateful  conso- 
lations. It  does  not  pretend  to  solve  every  moral  pro- 
blem, nor,  by  irresistible  evidence,  to  dispel  every 
painful  doubt.  Leaving  unexplained  many  mysteries 
to  exercise  our  faith,  and  to  humble  our  pride,  it  fur- 
nishes such  touching  proofs  of  the  wisdom  and  the  love 
of  God — it  renders  so  intelligible  the  relations  which 
w^e  sustain  to  him — and  it  offers  so  freely  to  all  the 
means  of  restoration  to  his  forfeited  favour,  that  it  is 
our  perverse  choice  if  we  dwell  in  the  regions  of  dark- 
ness, and  doubt,  and  agitation. 

In  the  season  of  youth  and  of  health,  before  the 
elastic  spirit  has  lost  its  light  bound,  how  little  do  we 
dream  of  the  melancholy  changes  which,  in  the  pro- 
gress of  life,  are  destined  to  befall  us.  Strangers  to 
sorrow,  and  buoyant  with  hope,  we  practically  discredit 
the  testimony  of  all  human  experience ;  we  virtually 
refuse  to  believe  that  the  days  of  darkness  will  soon 
come  over  us.  With  eager  step  we  pursue  the  business 
or  the  pageantry  of  life ;  we  are  fascinated  by  varied 
amusements;  we  delight  ourselves  in  the  brilliant 
creations  of  genius ;  we  revel  amid  fantastic  hopes  of 
superabundant  wealth;  we  look,  with  longing  eyes, 
upon  anticipated  honours.  But  suddenly  these  beauti- 
ful apparitions  vanish  away.  Sickness  impresses  upon 
us  its  monitory  lessons ;  death  bereaves  our  domestic 
circle  of  its  selectest  ornament ;  or  calamity,  in  some 


168  CONSOLATIONS 

other  form,  blights  all  the  promises  of  our  being.  Then 
do  we  ask  ourselves,  "  What  has  become  of  all  those 
vernal  fancies  which  once  liad  so  much  power  to  touch 
tlie  heart;"*  we  feel  that  we  have  for  ever  parted  with 
our  gorgeous  illusions,  and  that  we  are  summoned  to 
an  intercourse  with  stern  realities.  We  look  abroad 
upon  our  contemporaries,  and  we  look  outwardly  and 
inwardly  upon  ourselves,  and  we  mark,  in  sadness  of 
spirit,  the  changes  which  time  has  wrought  in  both. 
Upon  the  once  clear  brow  we  detect  the  shade  of  pen- 
sive melancholy,  or  the  furrows  perchance  of  some 
deep  and  nameless  sorrow.  From  lips  once  attuned 
only  to  the  expression  of  the  lighter  thoughts,  we 
now  catch  the  accents  of  chastised  affection,  or  the  les- 
sons of  grave  experience.  These  changes  which  we 
thus  note  as  having  passed  upon  others,  we  are  admo- 
nished have  likewise  passed  upon  ourselves.  And  this 
is  not  all.  Time  never  intermits  his  work.  Year  after 
year  robs  these  bodies  of  some  portion  of  their  beauty 
or  energy,  and  takes  from  these  spirits  some  sensible 
evidence  of  their  undying  power.  It  is  impossible  to 
contemplate  these  changes  without  emotion.  They 
touch  us  so  nearly,  and  they  speak  to  us  so  eloquently 
of  that  other  and  final  change  which  awaits  us,  that, 
while  we  ponder  them,  we  confess  how  inadequate  is 
all  human  philosophy  to  teach  us  the  duty  of  submission. 
Amid  these  affecting  memorials  of  decay — these  mute 
prophecies  of  our  end, — we  need  to  be  comforted  by 
hopes  and  promises  which  take  hold  upon  immortality. 
Christianity  offers  to  us  the  sublimest  solace.  It  as- 
sures us  that  the  changeful  and  troubled  aspects  of 
human  life  are  designed  for  our  everlasting  good ;  and 

"^  John  Foster, 


OF    CHRISTIANITY.  IQQ 

that  this  season  of  trial,  so  necessary  for  the  discipline 
of  moral  character,  will  prepare  every  sincere  follower 
of  Jesus  Christ  for  the  rest  and  the  happiness  of  heaven. 
In  closing  this  imperfect  essay,  I  may  be  allowed  to 
advert  to  the  consolation  which  Christianity  imparts  to 
those  who  instinctively  seek  much  of  their  happiness 
in  the  loftiest  regions  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  con- 
templation. It  is  the  destiny — in  some  sort,  the  sad 
destiny,  of  minds  of  this  high  order,  to  live  somewhat 
remote  from  the  sympathies  of  the  beings  around  them. 
They  are  accustomed  to  dwell,  with  consecrated  enthu- 
siasm, upon  the  varied  forms  of  material  and  moral 
beauty ;  to  study,  in  the  spirit  of  a  devout  philosophy, 
the  sublime  relations  which  the  truths  of  Christianity 
sustain  towards  individual  and  social  man ;  to  look  upon 
this  earth  with  the  eye  of  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger,  and 
towards  heaven  with  somewhat  of  yearning  for  its  pu- 
rity and  its  repose.  Although  they  may  walk,  with 
unfaltering  step,  the  round  of  common  occupation,  and 
delight  to  recognise,  in  the  humblest  man  living,  the 
moral  image  of  Christ,  yet  so  elevated  are  their  intel- 
lectual tastes,  so  enlarged  their  spiritual  apprehensions, 
and  so  triumphant  their  faith,  that  they  find  imperfect 
communion  even  among  the  multitudes  of  the  pious 
who  surround  them.  To  all  who,  in  the  midst  of  so- 
ciety, are  thus  lonely,  Christianity  administers  abundant 
consolations.  It  familiarizes  to  their  minds  means  of 
activity  and  enjoyment,  which  the  many  are  either 
unable  to  seek,  or  are  prone  to  neglect ;  it  utters  a  re- 
sponse to  their  deeper  sympathies ;  it  invites  them  to  a 
yet  deeper  study  of  the  economy  of  nature  and  of  grace, 
and  to  yet  nobler  contemplations  of  duty  and  of  truth. 
Providence,  (R.  I.) 

y 


170 


TREES  FOR  THE  PILGRIM'S  WREATH. 

BY  MISS  H.  F.  GOULD. 

"  KnovA'ing  that  tribulation  worketh  patience ;  and  patience  expe- 
rience ;  and  experience  hope ;  and  hope  maketh  not  ashamed." 

Romans  v.  3,  4,  5. 

Tribulation,  if  by  loss, 
Or  by  thorny  gain — the  cross, 
Thou  art  not  a  barren  tree ; 
Seeds  of  patience  drop  from  thee. 

Patience,  bitter  from  thy  root 
Upward,  till  we  reach  thy  fruit, 
Thou  hast  golden  grains  to  sow. 
Whence  Experience  full  shall  grow. 

Broad  Experience,  rank  and  dark, 
Thick  in  leaves  and  rough  in  bark, 
Through  thy  dubious  shade  we  grope, 
Till  we  grasp  the  bough  of  Hope. 

Hope,  we're  not  ashamed  with  thee. 
Showered  by  drops  from  Calvary, 
When  thy  branches  shoot  and  bloom 
Through  a  Saviour's  broken  tomb. 

Trees,  whereof  the  pilgrim  weaves 
For  his  crown  the  mingled  leaves, 
Wreaths  of  you  are  rich  and  bright ; 
Earth's  the  shade,  and  Heaven's  the  light. 

Ncwburyport,  (Mass.) 


171 


THE    STORM    IN   HARVEST. 

BY  MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

"  The  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof." 
How  naturally  should  this  passage  of  scripture  occur 
to  us,  when  we  look  upon  the  fields  whitened  by  the 
harvest,  and  listen  to  the  merry  song  of  the  reapers  as 
they  gather  it  into  barns.  But  alas  !  we  are  too  often 
only  made  sensible  of  the  mercy  of  God,  after  we  have 
felt  his  power ;  we  too  often  need  the  storm  in  harvest 
to  remind  us  that  it  is  "  God  alone  who  giveth  the  in- 
crease."   To  one  whose  habits  of  thought  enable  hun  to 

"  Find  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing," 

I  know  of  no  finer  moral  lesson  than  may  be  derived 
from  the  beautiful  picture  which  graces  the  accompany- 
ing page.  Admirable  as  a  work  of  art,  it  is  still  more 
valuable  for  the  sentiment  which  it  conveys  to  the  con- 
templative observer.  We  see  the  desolated  harvest 
field,  with  the  golden  grain  trodden  to  the  earth  beneath 
the  footsteps  of  the  tempest,  and  we  cannot  but  remem- 
ber that,  even  at  the  last  hour,  when  hope  seems  almost 
merged  in  fruition,  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  Almighty 
to  overwhelm  us  with  disappointment.  The  little  group 
of  reapers,  nestled  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  spreading 
tree,  may  teach  us  another  lesson  of  wisdom.  In  the 
appealing  countenance  of  the  young  husband  we  read 


172  THE    STORM 

how  doubly  sensible  he  is  of  his  own  helplessness,  when 
he  feels  his  utter  inability  to  protect  the  terrified  wife 
of  his  bosom ;  the  awe-struck  expression  of  the  father 
tells  us,  that  though  he  has  many  times  "bided  the 
pelting"  of  the  pitiless  storm"  in  safety,  yet  he  has  never 
ceased  to  remember  the  power  as  well  as  the  goodness 
of  God ;  while  the  placid  face  of  the  mother  of  the 
family  seems  to  say,  that  to  her  the  Lord  speaks  not  in 
the  whirlwind,  nor  yet  in  the  fire,  but  in  the  still  small 
voice  that  whispers  peace. 

The  picture  tells  its  own  story,  and  description  or 
eulogy  would  be  equally  superfluous ;  but  let  us  con- 
template it  in  a  broader  light,  and  look  upon  it  as  an 
epitome  of  human  life.  How  few,  how  very  few,  of  the 
myriad  groups  which  make  up  the  great  human  family, 
have  never  been  compelled  to  sit  in  anguish  and  deso- 
lation, amid  the  overthrow  of  their  cherished  hopes  ! 
How  few  have  planted,  and  watered,  and  garnered 
their  treasures,  without  having  encountered  a  "  storm 
in  harvest !" 

The  votary  of  Mammon  rises  up  early  and  lies  down 
late,  while  he  toils  after  the  perishable  riches  of  the 
world ;  he  eats  his  bread  with  carefulness,  and  of  the 
days  of  the  years  of  his  life  he  has  no  pleasure  in  them. 
At  length  his  task  is  nearly  done.  Like  the  king  of 
Babylon,  he  boasts  of  the  mighty  works  which  his  hands 
have  wrought ;  he  gathers  about  him  vessels  of  gold 
and  vessels  of  silver,  and  anticipates  rest  for  his  soul 
amid  the  soft  luxuries  of  sensual  enjoyment.  But  lo ! 
the  handwriting  appears  upon  the  wall — he  is  weighed 
in  the  balance  and  found  wanting — the  duration  of  his 
dream  of  happiness  is  determined — the  treasures  for 
which  he  periled  his  soul  are  given  to  another;  and, 


IN    HARVEST.  173 

while  he  shrinks  before  the  uplifted  dart  of  death,  he 
learns  too  late  that  "  the  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the 
fulness  thereof"  Who  will  deem  this  sketch  too 
highly  coloured  ?  Even  while  I  write,  its  fearful  truth 
is  every  day  exemplified.  Never  have  so  many  tem- 
ples been  reared  to  Mammon — never  has  so  much 
incense  smoked  upon  his  altars,  as  within  the  last  few 
years.  The  proudest  intellect  has  bowed  itself  in  the 
dust  before  him — the  noblest  hearts  have  been  trodden 
under  foot  of  the  idol.  Nay,  have  we  not  served  him 
as  the  men  of  olden  time  served  Moloch  T  have  we  not 
made  our  children  to  pass  through  the  fire  of  worldly 
temptation,  that  we  might  do  him  honour  ]  "  Alas ! 
man  walketh  in  a  vain  show,  and  disquieteth  himself  in 
vain :  he  heapeth  up  riches,  and  knoweth  not  who  shall 
gather  them."  The  time  has  come  for  gathering  into 
barns — the  labourers  are  making  ready  for  the  task, — 
but  the  thunder  of  God's  power  has  been  heard  afar  off; 
the  storm  in  harvest  has  already  begun  its  ravages,  and 
fearful  may  be  the  desolation  before  that  storm  shall  pass 
away.  May  God,  in  his  merciful  providence,  grant 
that  the  tempest  which  is  now  sweeping  over  the  com- 
mercial world  may  purify  its  moral  atmosphere.* 

Let  us  visit  the  abode  of  domestic  happiness,  where 
every  duty  is  prescribed  by  affection,  and  performed 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  willing  spirit.  How  beautiful  is 
the  picture  there  presented  to  us — how  much  it  seems 
to  realize  our  ideas  of  a  terrestrial  paradise  !  The  dis- 
cords of  an  unfeeling  world  are  never  heard  to  mar  the 
sweet  harmonies  of  life  within  that  bower  of  bliss. 
The  tones  of  manly  affection,  the  gentle  accents  of 

*  Written  during  the  great  commercial  distress  of  April,  1837. 


174  THE   STORM 

womanly  tenderness,  the  sweet  music  of  childhood's 
mirthfulness — all  are  there  to  fill  the  heart  with  joy. 
But  the  love  of  earth  too  soon  becomes  idolatry — the 
sunshine  of  prosperity  too  soon  draws  out  those  noxious 
vapours  which  obscure  the  pure  light  of  heaven — un- 
holy meteors  begin  to  gleam  over  the  path  of  those 
happy  beings,  in  place  of  the  stedfast  light  of  God's  be- 
neficent smile,  and  then  comes  the  tempest !  The 
desire  of  their  eyes  is  taken  from  them  at  a  stroke — an 
idol  is  dethroned  in  their  hearts — and,  though  in  the 
first  bitterness  of  their  bereavement  they  may  sit  like 
Rachel  mourning  for  her  children  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted,  yet  in  the  end  they  will  learn  patience  un- 
der their  affliction,  and  be  taught  to  exclaim,  "  The 
earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof:  let  him  do 
what  seemeth  good  in  his  sight." 

And  have  not  nations  also  their  storms  in  harvest? 
Who  does  not  remember  the  summer  of  '32,  when 
wealth  was  pouring  into  our  country  like  a  continual 
stream ;  when  our  sails  whitened  every  sea,  and  our 
merchants  were  as  princes  in  the  land.  We  were  then 
as  a  shining  mark  among  the  nations,  and  the  pride  of 
power  and  self-knowledge  was  among  our  rulers.  But 
the  protecting  arm  of  the  Lord  was  for  a  time  with- 
drawn ;  the  "  pestilence  that  walketh  in  darkness"  was 
permitted  to  go  abroad  among  us,  and  deep  fear  was 
among  the  people.  The  earth  gave  forth  her  fruits  in 
unwonted  profusion — fruits  tempting  to  the  eye  and 
luscious  to  the  palate ;  but  the  prohibition  once  uttered 
in  Paradise  seemed  fearfully  renewed,  and  "on  the 
day  that  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt  surely  die" — 
seemed  inscribed  in  legible  characters  upon  every  thing 
that  was  pleasant  to  the  taste  of  man.     To  use  the  ex- 


IN    HARVEST.  I75 

pressive  languag-e  of  one  whose  words  are  sometimes 
as  graphic  as  a  painter's  pencil,  "  It  seemed  as  if  death 
kept  guard  over  every  avenue  of  enjoyment."  Yet  the 
aspect  of  nature  remained  the  same.  Day' after  day 
the  sun  pursued  his  allotted  course  in  majestic  bright- 
ness, and  gathered  his  gorgeous  drapery  of  clouds  about 
him  when  he  sunk  to  rest.  Night  after  night  the  stars 
looked  down,  with  their  soft,  sweet  eyes,  from  heaven's 
high  watch-tower.  The  freshening  dew  still  visited  the 
thirsty  soil — the  perfumed  breezes  forgot  not  their 
gentle  ministry  among  the  flowers — all  the  operations 
of  nature  were  carried  on  with  undeviating  regularity; 
but  the  blessing  which  had  heretofore  been  a  part  of 
man's  heritage  was  withheld,  and  without  that  blessing 
the  very  sustenance  of  life  became  the  most  fatal  wea- 
pon of  death.  Deep  gloom  fell  upon  all  men :  the  pride 
of  life  was  forgotten — the  pomp  of  riches  was  unheeded : 
the  only  question  asked  was,  "  Watchman,  what  of  the 
night  1"  the  only  answer,  "Except  the  Lord  keep  the 
city,  the  watchman  waketh  in  vain !" 

Brooklyn,  (L.  I.) 


176 


THE  CAVE  OF  MACHPELAH: 

A  SCRIPTURE  SCENE. 
BY    MISS   HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 

The  sun,  over  Hebron's  green  plain  rising  bright, 

His  first  rays  of  glory  has  sent 
To  blend  with  the  tears,  where  the  dark  eye  of  night 

Has  wept  round  the  patriarch's  tent. 

For,  sorrow  and  death,  with  the  night,  hover  there — 

The  spirit  of  Sarah  has  fled ; 
Her  form  lies  at  rest,  while  the  soft  morning  air, 

With  Abraham,  sighs  o'er  the  dead. 

The  tall,  aged  oak,  that  is  guarding  the  door, 

With  arms  spreading  widely  away, 
A  fresh,  living  curtain  hangs  trembling  before 

The  peaceful  and  spiritless  clay. 

And  there  in  his  grief  does  the  patriarch  stand. 

He  looks  to  the  left  and  the  right. 
And  forward  and  back,  for  a  place  in  the  land 

To  bury  the  dead  from  his  sight. 

But,  thus  far  away  from  the  land  of  his  birth, 

From  all  of  his  kindred  and  name, 
No  spot  where  his  lost  one  may  sleep  in  the  earth. 

The  lonely  Chaldean  can  claim. 


THE    CAVE    OF    MACHPELAH.  ^77 

A  field  lies  before  him,  with  trees  green  and  high, 

A  grove  that  embosoms  a  cave  ; 
And  this  does  he  seek  M^ith  his  silver  to  buy, 

To  hallow  it  thence,  as  a  grave. 

The  people  of  Canaan,  who  pass  to  and  fro 
From  the  gates  of  their  city,  draw  near 

The  tent  of  the  pilgrim,  their  pity  to  show. 
His  woes  and  his  wishes  to  hear. 

Majestic  in  sorrow  he  stands,  while  the  crowd 
From  o'er  the  wide  plain  gather  round : 

With  reverence  now  to  their  chief  has  he  bowed, 
Till  his  white,  flowing  beard  met  the  ground. 

His  accents  are  firm :  in  his  eye  is  there  shown 
The  wisdom  that  beams  through  a  tear ; 

And  thus  is  the  grief  of  his  bosom  made  known. 
While  Ephron,  tl\e  ruler,  gives  ear. 

"  A  stranger  I  come  from  my  home  far  away ; 

The  ground  of  a  stranger  I  tread : 
While  death  has  a  place  in  my  dwelling  to-day, 

I've  nowhere  to  bury  my  dead." 

"Behold,"  replies  Ephron,  in  sympathy's  voice, 

"  We  have  many  sepulchres  made. 
Where  slumber  our  dead,  and  we  give  thee  thy  choice 

Of  all,  wherein  thine  may  be  laid." 

The  patriarch  answers,  "  Can  silver  procure 

A  spot,  that  to  me  and  to  mine 
Shall  be  a  possession,  made  sacred  and  sure — 

I  ask  it  of  thee,  and  of  thine  ? 

z 


178  THE    CAVE    OF    MACHPELAH. 

"  The  cave,  that  is  there  in  the  end  of  the  field, 

The  cave  of  Machpelah,  the  earth, 
And  trees  round  about  it,  I  ask  thee  to  yield 

To  me,  and  to  name  me  their  worth." 

"  'Tis  four  hundred  shekels  of  silver :  but  what 

Is  silver  between  thee  and  me  ?" 
The  generous  owner  replies,  "  Of  the  spot 

I  give  full  possession  to  thee." 

Once  more  speaks  the  sage  of  Chaldea :  "  The  land 

I  take,  but  the  gift  I  decline : 
The  price  duly  weighed,  putting  now  in  thy  hand, 

I  make  the  place  righteously  mine." 

And  now,  on  the  fair  land  of  promise  is  laid 

The  first  claim  of  permanent  hold  ! 
A  grave  is  the  purchase  !  the  first  ever  made 

Of  earth,  with  her  silver  or  gold. 

Blest  Cave  of  Machpelah  !  how  holy  the  trust, 

That  long  has  been  given  to  thee  ! 
Enshrined  in  thy  bosom  how  rich  is  the  dust ! 

How  great  its  disclosure  will  be  ! 

For,  when  the  archangel  descending  the  skies, 

Shall  give  the  loud  summons  to  all. 
Then  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob  will  rise 

From  thee,  and  come  forth  at  the  call ! 

Newburyport,  (Mass.) 


179 


THE  TWO  TRIOS. 


BY  MRS.  COPLEY. 


Caroline,  Emily,  and  Lucilla,  were  brought  up  on 
the  lap  of  affluence  and  luxury.  One  of  the  earliest 
impressions  on  their  youthful  minds  must  have  been, 
.  that  they  were  the  chief  objects  of  attention  in  the  fa- 
mily, surrounded  by  beings,  whose  whole  employment 
was  to  gratify  their  capricious  humours,  to  assist  their 
weakness,  to  supply  their  wants,  to  remove  or  prevent 
any  thing  that  might  possibly  occasion  them  a  moment's 
inconvenience  or  irritation,  and  to  admire  and  report  all 
their  pretty  sayings  and  doings.  Expense  was  wholly 
disregarded  in  gratifying  all  the  wishes  of  the  children, 
or  the  imagination  of  their  parents,  or  the  suggestions 
of  visiters  or  of  servants,  of  something  wanted  to  com- 
plete the  accommodations  or  adornments  of  the  nursery, 
or  the  gratification  of  its  inmates.  Nor  were  the  wishes, 
the  feelings,  or  the  claims  of  others  for  a  moment  con- 
sulted, if  one  of  the  young  ladies  chose  to  command 
their  services,  though  in  the  most  unreasonable  and  ca- 
pricious manner,  or  at  the  most  unseasonable  time. 
Thus  ideas  of  their  own  consequence  were  coeval  with 
their  earliest  consciousness;  and  the  seeds  of  pride 
sown  in  their  infant  hearts,  soon  sprang  forth  in  intoler- 
able insolence,  turbulence,  and  self  will.  To  be  a  few 
minutes  in  the  room,  without  engaging  the  attention  of 
their  parents  and  the  company,  was  a  neglect  too  great 


X80  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

to  be  brooked ;  and  would  excite  the  most  violent  ex- 
pressions of  rage  and  disappointment.  At  a  somewhat 
more  advanced  age,  similar  violence  would  be  provoked 
if  any  one  at  the  table  was  helped  before  them ;  or  if 
any  one  happened  inadvertently  to  take  the  orange,  or 
the  piece  of  cake  on  which  any  one  of  them  had  set  her 
mind.  If  the  slightest  opposition  were  made  to  their 
most  unreasonable  wishes,  or  even  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion in  complying  with  them,  the  ready  and  prevailing 
threat  was,  "If  you  do  not  give  it  me  this  moment,  I 
will  scream!" 

While  it  was  thus  an  established  point,  that  every 
wish  was  to  be  gratified,  the  means  of  furnishing  these 
gratifications  was  a  matter  of  little  consideration  to  the 
young  ladies.  They  grew  up  in  life  utterly  unaccus- 
tomed to  self-denial;  never  had  they  heard,  much  less 
uttered,  the  phrase,  "I  cannot  afford  it."  Never  had 
they  been  called  upon  to  consider  the  cost  of  any  article 
they  desired.  Their  wishes  were  constantly  antici- 
pated ;  costly  presents  were  continually  heaped  upon 
them,  and  they  were  furnished  with  a  profuse  supply 
of  pocket-money,  of  which  they  little  knew  the  use. 
Their  education  was  conducted  on  the  same  scale  of 
elegance.  The  first-rate  governesses  and  masters  were 
engaged,  to  impart  to  them  every  fashionable  accom- 
plishment; and,  as  they  possessed  good  abilities,  their 
acquirements  were  considerable.  They  played,  danced, 
sung,  painted,  and  dressed,  to  admiration.  Their  per- 
sonal attractions,  fashionable  manners,  and  flattering 
prospects,  early  secured  to  them  a  host  of  admirers,  and 
they  were  regarded  as  the  centre  of  the  gay  circle  in 
which  they  moved  and  shone.  But  their  minds  and 
hearts  had  not  been  cultivated.     They  had  never  been 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  IQl 

taught  to  exercise  their  intellectual  powers,  or  to  regu- 
late their  feelings  and  conduct.  Hence,  though  their 
manners  wore  the  polish  of  society,  their  dispositions 
were  selfish,  hiaughty,  and  overbearing.  They  possess- 
ed, indeed,  the  showy  accomplishments  which  please  in 
company ;  but  for  solitude  or  domestic  retirement,  they 
had  no  intellectual  resources. 

At  an  early  age  Lucilla  was  married.  Mr.  Maude 
was  a  man  of  taste  and  refinement,  usually  of  discern- 
ment also;  but  "love  is  blind,"  and  in  this  most  import- 
ant choice  he  was  egregiously  deceived,  as  time  too 
fully  proved.  He  had  flattered  himself  that  the  beau- 
tiful form  and  features  of  the  object  of  his  admiration, 
and  the  soft  blandishments  of  her  manners,  were  the 
accompaniments  and  expressions  of  gentleness  and 
kindness  of  heart;  and  construed  her  superficial  ac- 
complishments into  indications  of  general  taste.  Pleas- 
ing himself  with  the  idea  of  sharing  with  a  congenial 
mind,  the  high  gratifications  of  intellect  and  taste,  he 
proposed,  for  their  matrimonial  excursion,  a  tour  through 
Switzerland  and  Italy ;  to  which  the  young  lady  readily 
assented,  declaring  herself  passionately  fond  of  the 
sublime  and  romantic  scenery  of  nature,  and  desirous 
above  all  things  of  beholding  the  celebrated  triumphs 
of  human  skill  and  genius  which  had  excited  such 
universal  admiration.  Accordingly,  immediately  after 
the  nuptial  ceremony,  the  splendour  of  wliich  was  duly 
announced  in  the  public  prints,  the  happy  pair  set  off, 
accompanied  by  Emily  the  sister  of  Lucilla,  and  a  sister 
of  Mr.  Maude.  Such  a  tour  is  calculated  to  develop 
to  each  other  the  several  dispositions  of  the  party.  The 
development  awakened  some  undefined  feelings  of  dis- 
appointment in  the  mind  of  the  husband ;  and  in  that  of 


182  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

his  sister,  anxious  forebodings  as  to  the  colour  his  fu- 
ture years  would  assume  in  consequence  of  the  con- 
nexion. Many  indications  peeped  out,  that  the  soft  and 
tender  airs  of  Lucilla  and  her  sister,  were  but  the  ex- 
pressions of  selfishness  and  affectation;  and  though, 
when  the  beauties  of  surrounding  objects  were  pointed 
out,  they  took  as  much  care  as  possible  to  admire  in 
the  right  place,  and  to  be  sufficiently  loud  in  their  ex- 
pressions of  admiration,  they  were  evidently  destitute 
of  that  genuine  tasteful  perception  which  can  result 
only  from  a  habitual  exercise  of  the  reasoning  pow- 
ers ;  and  is  by  no  means  necessarily  connected  with 
even  a  high  degree  of  imitative  skill  and  aptitude.  It 
is  very  possible  for  persons  to  draw  well  and  play  well, 
without  having  a  soul  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of 
painting  and  music ;  and  to  talk  borrowed  sentiment 
about  hanging  woods,  and  laughing  valleys,  and  purl- 
ing streams,  without  being  genuine  lovers  of  nature ; 
and  it  is  very  possible  to  wish  to  see  what  every  body 
admires,  without  that  classical  taste,  and  acquaintance 
with  history,  which  would  at  once  perceive  and  recall 
the  associations  connected  with  these  objects.  Mr. 
Maude  could  scarcely  conceal  from  himself  the  morti- 
fying fact,  that  while  his  own  sister  possessed  a  mind 
capable  of  appreciating  and  enjoying  all  she  saw,  his 
wife  and  her  sister  were  really  uninterested  spectators* 
It  was  necessary  to  arouse  their  attention,  to  direct 
their  observation,  and  to  explain  every  allusion  m  a 
way  by  which,  at  best,  all  the  freshness  of  pleasure 
was  sacrificed,  and  which  was  often  received  with 
apathy  and  indifference.  The  gay  promenade  and  pub- 
lic spectacle,  alone,  could  excite  interest  in  their  minds ; 
and  it  was  painfully  obvious,  that  their  acquirements 


THE   TWO   TRIOS.  IQ3 

were  only  for  the  purposes  of  display,  not  for  those  of 
enjoyment  or  improvement,  nor  for  the  gratification  of 
their  friends. 

The  ties  of  society  kept  the  party  tog-ether  during 
the  excursion ;  but  it  was  often  with  reluctance  and  ill 
grace  that  Lucilla  and  Emily  agreed  in  any  rational 
and  quiet  plan  of  pleasure  proposed  by  their  compa- 
nions, who  frequently  sacrificed  to  their  preference  for 
public  scenes,  some  more  intellectual  enjoyment.  In- 
deed, there  were  frequent  altercations  between  the 
sisters  themselves,  which  could  be  but  ill  concealed 
from  their  fellow-travellers.  Each  had  a  point  of  her 
own  to  carry,  which  she  selfishly  pursued,  in  total  dis- 
regard of  the  wishes  of  others ;  an  air  of  insolent  tri- 
umph marking  the  victory  of  self-will,  and  one  of  petu- 
lant gloom  and  irritation  its  defeat. 

These  unamiable  tempers  cast  a  shade  over  the  plea- 
sures of  the  excursion ;  and  the  feelings  of  disappoint- 
ment, so  reluctantly  admitted  abroad,  were  but  con- 
firmed on  the  return  of  the  young  couple  to  their  home. 
Home  is  the  great  trial  of  female  character.  She  who 
well  acquits  herself  there,  habitually  aiming  to  discharge 
every  duty,  and  to  promote  the  comfort  of  all  around 
her,  is  sure  to  be  as  much  sought  in  company,  and  to 
command  quite  as  much  admiration,  as  will  be  for  her 
real  good ;  but  she  whose  mind  is  absorbed  in  the  idea 
of  shining  abroad,  will  certainly  fail  in  the  obligations 
and  duties  of  home ;  and  will  ultimately  find,  that  in 
neglecting  the  substance,  domestic  happiness — she  has 
forfeited  the  shadow,  public  applause. 

Visits  engrossed  the  first  few  weeks  of  residence  at 
home.  During  this  period  little  else  was  expected, 
and  every  allowance  made  by  the  fond  husband  for 


184  THE   TWO   TRIOS. 

seeming  deficiencies.  He  was  gratified  by  the  admi- 
ration excited  in  company,  by  his  wife's  manners  and 
accomplishments;  and  he  looked  forward,  with  hope, 
to  the  season  when  these  formalities  should  have  passed 
by;  and  when  she  should  begin  to  live  for  him  and 
home.  But,  alas !  the  cessation  of  visiting  engage- 
ments only  served  to  render  palpable  the  painful  truth, 
that  she  was  not  formed  for  domestic  life.  She  was 
neither  qualified  nor  disposed  to  superintend  the  affairs 
of  the  family,  but  left  them  entirely  to  servants,  over 
whom  she  exercised  an  arbitrary  and  capricious  autho- 
rity, characterized  both  by  unreasonable  requirements 
and  false  indulgence.  Vain  was  every  endeavour,  on 
the  part  of  her  husband  and  his  amiable  sister,  to  rouse 
her  to  active  benevolence.  She  regarded  the  poor 
around  her  with  ineffable  contempt ;  and,  though  she 
was  not  unwilling  to  see  her  name  on  subscription  lists, 
which  to  her  involved  no  exercise  of  self-denial,  nothing 
could  induce  her,  personally,  to  investigate  the  circum- 
stances and  wants  of  the  poor ;  or  in  any  way  to  come 
in  contact  with  them.  Neither  was  she  an  intelligent 
or  amiable  companion  for  her  husband.  She  could, 
when  she  was  in  the  humour  to  do  so,  entertain  him 
with  music,  or  display  to  him  her  drawings ;  but  she 
took  no  part  in  intellectual  conversation,  or  literary 
pursuits.  Her  reading  was  confined  to  novels;  and 
even  of  these,  when  her  husband  endeavoured  at  once 
to  gratify  and  improve  her  taste,  by  introducing  works 
of  real  merit,  she  had  not  patience  to  hear  or  read  the 
whole,  and  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  author,  but  was 
intent  only  on  the  incidents  of  the  tale.  "  Mated,  not 
matched,"  was  the  painfully  growing  conviction  of  her 
husband's  mind.  At  length  that  prospect  was  presented 


THE  TWO   TRIOS.  IQ5 

to  Lucilla,  which  scarcely  ever  fails  to  elicit  the  strong- 
est energies  of  the  mind,  and  to  bring  into  exercise 
the  best  dispositions  of  the  heart — she  was  likely  to 
become  a  mother. 

Her  husband  fondly  hoped  that  this  interesting  cir- 
cumstance would  prove  the  turning  point  in  her  cha- 
racter, and  would  arouse  her  to  a  taste  for  the  duties 
and  delights  of  home ;  but  this  fond  hope  also  was  dis- 
appointed. Lucilla,  indeed,  was  pleased  with  her  off- 
spring, and  interested  in  procuring  for  it  the  richest 
and  most  costly  robes,  and  a  nurse  who  had  lived  in  a 
family  of  distinction.  There  was  no  failure  in  any 
point  of  expense,  fashion,  or  display ;  but  there  was  no 
intention  of  qualifying  herself  for,  and  entering  upon 
the  actual  discharge  of,  her  duties  as  a  mother.  At- 
tention to  her  babe  was  not  to  interfere  with  the  pur- 
suits of  pleasure,  nor  had  it  entered  into  her  mind  to 
discipline  its  affections  and  cultivate  its  powers.  She 
ordered  the  nurse  to  pa}-^  very  close  attention  to  it.  If 
she  heard  it  cry,  she  rang  the  bell  violently,  and  in- 
sisted on  its  being  appeased.  If  she  fancied  it  was 
indisposed,  she  immediately  called  in  a  physician,  and 
she  thought  herself  a  good  mother.  What  more  could 
she  do] 

Happily  for  the  little  one,  its  father  and  aunt  were 
more  alive  to  its  interest,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  sup- 
plied the  lamentable  deficiency  of  a  mother's  care. 
But,  however  kind  and  judicious  the  substitute,  a  child 
must  sustain  an  irreparable  injury,  who,  having  a  mo- 
ther living,  has  to  associate  its  earliest  enjoyments  and 
instructions  with  any  other  individual,  and  to  regard 
its  mother  in  any  secondary  light.  A  mother  ought  to 
be  to  her  child  the  centre  of  its  little  system ;  and  if 

A  a 


186  THE   TWO   TRIOS. 

it  be  otherwise,  however  well  her  place  may  be  sup- 
plied, she  cannot  possess  all  the  enjoyment,  nor  the  child 
all  the  advantage,  to  which  the  relationship  entitles 
tliem.  A  thorn  was  continually  rankling  in  the  father's 
heart,  while  he  perceived  the  deficiencies  of  his  wife, 
and  her  total  disinclination  to  seek  improvement ;  nor 
was  it  possible  for  her  to  go  on  in  this  course  of  negli- 
gence without  moral  deterioration.  Indifference  to 
duty,  leads  on  to  the  active  exercise  of  the  selfish  and 
malevolent  passions.  Self-indulgence  occasioned  the 
neglect  of  maternal  duties,  and  self  love  prompted  the 
malignant  feelings  of  jealousy  towards  those  who  per- 
formed them.  Any  mother,  of  Lucilla's  acquaintance, 
who  conscientiously  discharged  the  duties  devolving  on 
her,  was  sure  to  be  the  object  of  her  sarcasms  and  in- 
sinuations. She  was  even  jealous  of  the  improvement 
of  her  own  child,  because  it  had  been  effected  by  other 
exertions  than  her  own ;  and  jealous  of  the  attachment 
and  gratitude  which  the  child  discovered  towards  those 
to  whom  it  was  really  indebted.  This  was  a  continual 
source  of  family  altercation,  in  which  Lucilla  was  often 
aided  by  the  interference  of  her  own  sisters,  between 
whom  and  Miss  Maude,  a  mortal  feud  subsisted;  or 
rather  a  strong  dislike  on  the  part  of  the  former,  against 
one  whose  superior  excellence  served  to  display  their 
own  inferiority.  It  were  well  if  the  envious  would 
throw  half  as  much  feeling  and  energy  into  endeavours 
to  improve  themselves,  as  they  do  in  endeavouring  to 
disparage  and  oppose  others ;  the  cause  of  their  envy 
and  enmity  might  soon  be  satisfactorily  removed.  But 
such  an  effort  would  require  greatness  of  mind  that 
never  belongs  to  the  envious.  In  every  possible  way 
Lucilla  and  her  sisters  endeavoured  to  thwart  the  move- 


THE   TWO    TRIOS.  IQ7 

merits  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Maude ;  and  by  false  and  secret 
indulgence,  to  undermine  their  hold  on  the  affections 
of  the  child,  or  by  presenting-  some  offered  gratification 
with  the  remark,  "  But  perhaps  your  papa  and  aunt 
will  be  angry ;"  or,  "  I  dare  say  your  aunt  Maude  will 
not  approve  of  it ;"  thus  exciting  in  the  mind  of  the 
child,  either  desires  for  things  that  were  really  impro- 
per, or  awakening  its  jealous  suspicions  of  harsh  and 
arbitrary  restrictions  in  the  government  of  its  best 
friends. 

On  the  birth  of  a  second  child,  Lucilla  seemed  deter- 
mined to  come  to  an  open  quarrel  with  her  sister-in-law, 
whose  influence  she  had  always  secretly  disliked.  She 
had  resolved,  she  said,  to  take  the  child  under  her  own 
management,  and  adopt  her  own  plans  without  inter- 
ference. That  she  should  devote  herself  to  the  manage- 
ment of  her  child,  so  far  from  being  offensive  to  Misa 
Maude,  was  regarded  by  her  as  a  most  gratifying  and 
hopeful  intimation ;  and  nothing  could  be  farther  from 
her  intentions  than  impertinently  to  intrude  or  interfere. 
She  could  not  but  wish  that  her  sister-in-law  discovered 
a  stronger  disposition  to  inform  her  mind  on  the  nature 
of  the  duties  she  had  resolved  to  undertake ;  yet  the 
very  fact  of  her  setting  about  them  would,  she  hoped, 
awaken  inquiries,  and  lead  to  improvement.  The  reso- 
lution, however,  wels  but  short-lived.  The  love  of  ease 
and  pleasure  soon  surmounted  the  claims  of  maternal 
duties ;  and  the  infant  was  left,  as  in  the  former  case, 
to  the  care  of  servants,  on  whom,  however,  the  father 
and  aunt  exercised  a  conscientious  but  unwelcome  sur- 
veillance. 

About  this  time,  strange  vicissitudes  took  place  in 
the  family  of  Lucilla.    Emily,  the  accomplished,  senti- 


Igg  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

mental  sister  of  Lucilla,  degraded  herself  by  a  clandes- 
tine marriage  with  a  low-bred,  unprincipled  gambler, 
with  whom  she  had  picked  up  an  acquaintance  at  an 
assize  ball.  She  was  immediately  abandoned  by  her 
family.  Some  property,  which  came  to  her  by  her 
mother's  family,  was  at  her  own  command ;  but  her 
father  declared  she  should  never  receive  a  shilling  from 
him.  Her  own  portion  was  quickly  squandered  by  the 
infamous  wretch  with  whom  she  had  connected  herself, 
and  by  whom  she  was  deserted,  and  left  in  destitution, 
with  two  helpless  infants.  Meanwhile,  her  father  died 
suddenly.  Whether  or  not  he  intended  to  carry  into 
execution  his  threat  of  disinheriting  Emily,  was,  in  point 
of  fact,  of  little  consequence,  for  his  death  disclosed  the 
astounding  fact  that  he  had  nothing  to  leave.  His  affairs 
were  in  such  a  state  of  derangement,  that  his  death  not 
only  disappointed  the  lofty  expectations  of  his  family,  but 
caused  the  failure  of  the  great  mercantile  establish- 
ment with  which  he  was  connected.  The  widow,  with 
her  remaining  daughter,  Caroline,  retired  on  the  little 
property  that  was  secured  to  them,  into  a  station  of 
comparative  obscurity.  They  had  still  enough,  with 
moderation  and  economy,  to  supply  their  real  wants ; 
but  they  were  destitute  of  that  mental  cultivation,  and 
those  well-regulated  habits,  which  are  necessary  to 
qualify  persons  for  enjoying  and  adorning  life  in  any 
situation,  and  especially  for  accommodating  themselves 
for  any  change  of  circumstances.  They  were  proud, 
impatient  and  discontented — continually  changing  their 
abode.  Sometimes  fancying  they  should  be  happier 
apart,  they  separated  for  awhile ;  afterwards,  consider- 
ing that  their  little  resources  would  enable  them  to 
command  a  better  appearance  if  united,  they  again  lived 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  IQQ 

together  for  a  time.    This  course  continued  for  several 
years,  during'  which  time  the  deserted  Emily  and  her 
children  had  been  chiefly  dependent  for  their  support 
on  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Maude  and  his  sister.    Nor  had 
tliat  kindness  been  confined  to  the  supply  of  their  ne- 
cessities.    They  had  laboured,  and  with  some  degree 
of  success,  to  arouse  the  better  feelings  of  the  mother, 
and  inspire  her  with  a  spirit  of  exertion,  and  a  desire 
of  self  cultivation,  by  which  her  formerly  useless  ac- 
quirements might  be  gathered  up,  and  made  subservi- 
ent to  her  own  support  and  that  of  her  children.     It 
was  long  before  her  ill-regulated  mind  could  be  made 
to  stoop  to  the  degradation  of  getting  her  own  living ; 
but  by  judicious  kindness,  firmness  and  perseverance, 
these  prejudices  were  in  a  measure  worn  down.     Spe- 
cimens of  her  performances  having  been  seen  and  ap- 
proved, Emily  entered  into  an  engagement  with  the 
proprietor  of  a  repository  for  painting  flowers,  transpa- 
rencies, and  other  fancy  articles.    At  first,  the  applica- 
tion required  seemed  rather  burdensome ;  not  but  she 
had  frequently  applied  much  more  closely  when  intent 
only  on  her  own  gratification,  but  the  idea  of  working 
for  an  employer  produced  the  feeling  of  irksomeness. 
Kind  encouragement  was  suggested  by  the  amiable 
friend  of  Emily,  who  often  visited  her  in  her  humble 
apartment,  and  occasionally  assisted  her  in  her  work. 
Again,  it  was  no  small  struggle,  when  the  work  was 
to  be  carried  home  and  the  payment  received.     Could 
she,  a  young  lady  who  had  been  brought  up  to  her  car- 
riage, and  who  had  never  thought  of  performing  any 
office  for  herself,  could  she  stoop  to  such  degradation  ] 
No — she  would  send  the  servant  of  the  house.    A  little 
reflection  convinced  her  that  this  would  be  unneces- 


190  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

sarily  imparting  her  affairs,  and  leaving-  herself  at  the 
mercy  of  a  stranger.  After  some  conflict  she  went : 
she  was  treated  with  civility  and  respect  by  her  em- 
ployer, who  seemed  to  regard  her  not  at  all  as  if  she 
degraded  herself.  She  received  her  money,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  had  the  pleasure  of  providing 
for  her  own  wants  and  those  of  her  children.  Thia 
gratification  was  so  sweet,  as  to  stimulate  and  encour- 
age her  to  future  exertion;  and,  in  course  of  time, 
Emily  in  a  considerable  degree  realized  the  truth  of 
the  maxim,  "  Choose  the  course  of  life  which  is  most 
excellent,  and  habit  will  render  it  most  delightful." 
She  knew  something  of  that  expressive  blessing,  "  Let 
his  hands  be  sufficient  for  him."*  She  enjoyed  the 
grateful  affection  of  her  children,  and  the  respect  of  her 
real  friends ;  and  she  seldom  heaved  a  sigh  for  the  days 
of  her  splendour  and  self  indulgence.  As  selfishness 
and  pride  were  in  some  measure  subdued  within  her, 
tlie  kindlier  feelings  gained  the  ascendancy.  Her 
chief  distress,  (next  to  the  thoughts  of  her  worthless 
husband,  from  whom  however  she  received  no  interrup- 
tion,) was  in  the  unrelenting  pride  of  her  mother  and 
sister,  who,  notwithstanding  their  own  troubles,  sternly 
refused  to  see  her.  Even  Lucilla  could  scarcely  be 
brought  to  consent  that  she  should  be  admitted  to  her 
table,  or  to  treat  her  with  common  civility.  Over  these 
things  poor  Emily  often  wept  bitterly.  But  the  disci- 
pline, though  painful,  was  salutary.  It  humbled  and 
chastened  her  mind,  and  led  her  to  seek  that  conso- 
lation, to  which  she  was  directed  by  her  inestimable 
friend,  and  which  can  be  found  in  Him  alone  whom  the 

*  Deut.  xxxiii.  7. 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  X91 

scriptures  reveal,  who  never  despised  the  needy  nor 
rejected  the  penitent.  And  ultimately  Emily  had  the 
unspeakable  satisfaction  of  being  useful  to,  and  melting 
by  kindness,  those  who  had  so  determinately  forsaken 
and  cast  her  off. 

During  the  temporary  absence  of  Caroline,  the  mo- 
ther was  seized  with  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  imme- 
diately rendered  her  helpless.  Emily  heard  of  it,  and 
hastened  to  render  her  every  assistance  in  her  power. 
Caroline  was  not  there  to  refuse  her  admission,  and  her 
mother  was  not  in  a  state  to  oppose  it ;  and  in  a  few 
days  her  services  were  found  to  be  so  valuable  and  in- 
dispensable, that  there  was  no  disposition  to  part  with 
her.  In  the  intervals  of  watching  by  the  sick  bed  of 
her  mother,  she  contrived,  by  dint  of  industry,  to  keep 
up  her  engagements  with  her  employers ;  and  her 
children  were  kindly  cared  for  by  her  friends.  She 
affectionately  attended  her  mother  to  the  last,  and  re- 
ceived such  expressions  of  forgiveness,  affection  and 
gratitude,  as  she  was  capable  of  rendering.  At  her 
death,  the  little  remainder  of  her  property  descended 
to  her  children.  Lucilla  needed  it  not,  and  her  husband 
desired  that  her  portion  should  be  divided  between  her 
sisters. 

As  the  little  girls  of  Emily  were  now  rising  to  an 
age  when  regular  instruction  is  required,  it  was  sug- 
gested to  their  mother  that  she  might  with  propriety 
and  advantage  receive  a  few  more  little  girls  to  instruct 
with  them.  Conscious  of  her  early  deficiencies,  she 
shrunk  from  the  undertaking ;  but  the  sincere  desires 
and  diligent  attention  to  self-improvement  which  she 
had  for  some  years  discovered,  convinced  her  judicious 
friends  that  she  might  be  safely  encouraged.     She  en- 


292  "^HE    TWO    TRIOS. 

gaged  a  small  but  well  situated  house,  and  commenced 
her  school  with  three  little  girls  besides  her  own,  still 
employing  her  leisure  hours  in  painting,  which  for 
some  time  continued  the  most  profitable  source  of  sup- 
port. But  her  endeavours  with  her  pupils  gave  satis- 
fection  to  their  parents,  and  introduced  her  to  farther 
notice.  By  degrees  she  established  a  flourishing  school, 
and  comfortably  supported  herself  and  children  by  her 
own  exertions. 

As  to  her  sisters,  Lucilla  was  considerably  improved 
by  the  society  of  her  husband  and  his  sister,  espe- 
cially by  the  example  of  the  latter,  in  whom  she 
now  saw  exemplified  the  character  of  the  discreet, 
affectionate  wife  and  mother,  and  apparently  felt  a 
wish,  and  made  an  eflbrt  to  imitate  her.  The  sincere 
desire  to  improve  is  never  unavailing,  and  LucUla  at 
thirty  years  of  age  was  incomparably  better  than  LucOla 
at  twenty :  but  she  never  attained  to  the  degree  of  ex- 
cellence as  a  wife,  mother  or  mistress,  for  which  her 
native  abilities  had  qualified  her,  had  but  her  early 
education  been  properly  conducted. 

Caroline  remained  unmarried.  She  had  not  sufficient 
property  to  attract  the  notice  of  one  who  cared  little 
about  mind  and  temper:  neither  were  her  mind  and 
temper  such  as  to  win  the  afiections  of  a  judicious  man, 
whose  own  property  enabled  him  to  regard  that  as  a 
secondary  consideration.  Xor  were  her  notions  and 
habits  sufficiently  humble  and  domestic  to  fit  her  for  a 
tradesman's  wife.  After  many  flirtations,  she  subsided 
into  a  card-playing,  scandal-talking  old  maid — lived  un- 
beloved,  and  died  unlamented. 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  I93 

Emma  and  Ruth  were  the  daughters  of  an  excellent 
and  judicious  mother.  The  line  of  life  in  which  the 
parents  moved,  enabled  them  to  command  every  ad- 
vantage in  the  education  of  their  children.  But  that 
important  process  was  happily  commenced  under  the 
auspices  of  the  mother,  long  before  the  aid  of  govern- 
esses and  masters  was  sought.  The  first  lesson  was 
that  of  subduing  self-will.  This  initiatory  lesson  was 
instilled  at  so  early  a  period,  that  no  recollection  could 
be  retained  of  the  drilling.  From  their  earliest  infancy, 
the  cry  of  self-will  had  never  been  gratified ;  hence  it 
was  not  often  repeated,  nor  greatly  prolonged.  Children 
will  seldom  take  the  trouble  to  cry  for  any  thing,  unless 
they  have  experienced  that  it  is  to  be  had  for  crying 
for.  How  much  the  comfort  of  the  children  at  the  time, 
and  their  future  tranquillity  of  mind  and  temper,  are 
promoted,  and  how  much  the  labour  of  those  who  attend 
upon  them  is  lightened,  perhaps  scarcely  ever  enters 
into  the  calculations  of  those  who  accustom  themselves 
to  gratify  a  crying  child,  by  yielding  to  its  clamorous 
desires.  A  similar  fit  of  illness,  or  accident,  occurring 
to  two  children  brought  up  on  the  difierent  plans,  would 
strikingly  show  the  difference.  A  surgeon  was  called 
in  to  a  little  girl,  between  three  and  four  years  of  age, 
who  had  broken  her  arm.  To  his  great  surprise,  he 
found  the  child  quietly  seated  on  its  mother's  lap,  pre- 
pared willingly  to  submit  to  his  interference,  which  the 
mother  had  warned  her  would  probably  for  the  time 
increase  the  pain,  but  was  necessary  to  her  recovery. 
A  neighbour  hearing  of  the  accident,  kindly  but  need- 
lessly called  with  two  of  his  men,  to  offer  their  assist- 
ance in  holding  her  down  during  the  operation.  The 
parents  of  the  child  were  astonished  at  the  idea  of  the 

Bb 


194  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

thing-  being  considered  necessary ;  but  the  surgeon 
assured  them  that  only  a  few  days  before  he  had  been 
called  to  a  child  of  the  same  age,  who  had  met  with  a 
similar  accident,  when  it  so  violently  resisted  every 
attempt  he  made  to  take  hold  of  the  arm,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  employ  all  the  force  in  the  house  to  hold 
it  down ;  and  afterwards,  by  its  violent  and  impatient 
struggles,  it  removed  the  splmts,  and  displaced  the 
fractured  bone,  by  which  its  pain  was  exceedingly  ag- 
gravated, and  the  probability  of  a  complete  cure  mate- 
rially lessened.  While  the  little  quiet  creature,  on 
whom  he  then  attended,  being  accustomed  to  implicit 
obedience,  remained  perfectly  still  during  the  few  days 
it  was  considered  necessary,  contentedly  amusing  itself 
with  pictures,  playthings  and  books,  or  watching  the 
plays  of  the  other  children,  and  was  in  a  surprisingly 
short  time  completely  restored  to  activity  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

Emma  and  Ruth  were  early  taught  that  there  were 
certain  times  at  which  they  must  be  quiet,  and  that  they 
must  wait  for  the  performance  of  any  little  service 
they  required,  when  the  person  who  performed  it  was 
otherwise  engaged.  Hence,  when  a  little  cousin  of 
theirs  was  visiting  them,  they  were  perfectly  astonished 
at  perceiving  that  she  was  permitted  to  call  the  serv- 
ant from  her  dinner,  to  put  together  a  dissected  puzzle 
for  her.  They  had  never  before  witnessed,  much  less 
practised,  such  an  act  of  inconsideration. 

Their  good  mother  had  accustomed  them,  as  early  as 
possible,  to  wait  upon  themselves.  To  acquire  the  art 
of  tying  a  string,  putting  on  a  shoe,  or  folding  a  frock, 
was  esteemed  matter  of  congratulation ;  and  she  who 
had  once  acquired  it,  was  never  disposed  to  sink  again 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  I95 

into  the  helpless  dependence  of  infancy.  They  were 
soon  accustomed  regularly  to  put  away  their  boxes  and 
implements  of  work  and  play,  when  done  with ;  to  clear 
the  nursery  previous  to  each  meal,  and  to  retiring  to 
bed;  and  to  put  their  clothes  neatly  in  the  drawers. 
The  habits  of  neatness  and  independence  thus  early 
formed,  grew  into  a  kind  of  second  nature.  It  seemed 
perfectly  instinctive  to  these  girls  to  restore  every  thing 
to  its  place  as  soon  as  done  with,  and  to  surround  them- 
selves with  neatness  and  order ;  and,  so  far  were  they 
from  feeling  it  essential  to  their  comfort  and  dignity  to 
be  waited  upon,  and  have  all  their  little  wants  supplied 
by  others,  they  regarded  it  as  the  degradation  connect- 
ed with  infancy;  and  though  they  were  taught  to 
cherish  feelings  of  gratitude  towards  those  who  had 
ministered  to  them  in  their  state  of  helplessness,  they 
had  no  disposition  whatever  to  prolong  or  renew  the 
indulgence.  From  helping  themselves,  the  transition 
was  easy  and  honourable  to  assisting  others.  It  was 
reckoned  a  high  promotion,  to  be  employed  by  the  mo- 
tlier  in  some  little  domestic  service ;  or  to  be  permitted 
to  work  for,  and  convey  relief  to  the  poor  neighbours. 
All  this  while  their  education  (according  to  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  term)  was  going  on  ;  and  the  more 
they  were  engaged  with  regular  masters  and  lessons, 
the  more  they  learned  to  economise  time,  that  they 
might  be  enabled  still  to  keep  up  and  extend  their  little 
schemes  of  benevolence.  At  a  very  early  hour  in  the 
morning  they  were  busily  engaged  in  their  studies; 
and  the  little  shreds  and  patches  of  time,  which  too 
many  young  ladies  squander  in  indolence  and  frivolity, 
were  carefully  improved,  and  turned  to  good  account 
either  for  themselves  or  others.     By  the  judicious  cul- 


196  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

tivation  of  their  minds,  which  had  heen  carried  on  from 
the  earliest  dawn  of  reason,  these  young  ladies  were 
qualified  to  enter,  with  real  spirit,  taste  and  improve- 
ment, into  the  various  branches  of  literature,  science 
and  accomplishment,  to  which  their  attention  was 
directed.  They  were  not  merely  taught  to  repeat  like 
parrots,  or  to  imitate  like  copying  machines,  but  they 
learned  to  enter  into  the  sentiments  of  the  author  whose 
works  they  perused ;  to  perceive  the  bearings  and  rela- 
tions of  science,  and  the  concatenation  of  events,  and 
the  development  of  human  nature,  in  history.  Thus 
their  minds  were  being  furnished,  and  they  becoming 
fit  for  intelligent  companionship.  The  lighter  accom- 
plishments, music  and  drawing,  were  not  exalted  into 
the  grand  business  of  life,  though  they  were  cultivated 
with  taste,  and  executed  with  spirit  and  simplicity. 
To  the  humbler  and  too  much  neglected  branches  of 
female  education,  arithmetic  and  needle-work,  a  due 
portion  of  attention  was  paid.  The  young  ladies  were 
accustomed,  under  their  mother's  direction,  to  purchase 
their  own  clothes ;  and  to  assist  in  cutting  out  and 
making  personal  and  household  linen  of  every  descrip- 
tion. Thus  they  were  familiar  with  the  materials, 
qualities  and  prices  of  the  various  articles ;  they  learn- 
ed also  how  to  regulate  their  expenses,  and  to  know 
how  to  direct  others  in  performing  their  work,  or  how  to 
perform  it  themselves,  if  circumstances  should  deprive 
them  of  the  means  of  employing  others.  In  like  man- 
ner their  judicious  mother  initiated  them  in  household 
affairs,  first  by  permitting  them  in  turns  to  accompany 
her  in  her  daily  superintendence,  and,  as  they  grew  up, 
delegated  to  tliem,  alternately  with  herself,  the  charge 
of  housekeeping ;  at  the  close  of  the  week  regularly  in- 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  I97 

specting  their  books,  and  pointing"  out  any  incorrectness 
or  excess.  And  did  she  thus  make  her  daughters  vul- 
gar drudges,  or  introduce  them  to  a  degrading  famili- 
arity with  servants?  Far  from  it.  They  were  as 
intelligent  in  their  conversation,  and  as  polished  in 
their  manners,  as  if  they  had  no  idea  whatever  of  in- 
come or  expenditure,  of  the  management  of  business  or 
the  allotment  of  time ;  while,  by  the  hour  or  half  hour 
daily  employed  in  superintending  domestic  affairs,  they 
acquired  a  portion  of  valuable  practical  knowledge,  for 
the  want  of  which  no  light  accomplishments  could 
compensate.  They  gained  that  proper  superiority  to 
their  servants,  which  belongs  to  a  just  appreciation  of 
tlieir  duties  and  claims,  and  a  capability  of  directing 
them  in  the  prosecution  of  their  business,  and  of  under- 
standing whether  they  performed  it  properly.  They 
learned  also  to  form  a  scale  of  expenditure,  and  by 
economy  and  care  to  provide  ample  resources  of  benevo- 
lence, which,  through  ignorance,  extravagance  and 
waste,  are  often  thrown  away.  It  was  the  remark  of 
an  aged  and  faithful  servant  in  the  family,  "  To  see  our 
young  ladies  in  the  store-room,  or  visiting  their  poor, 
sick  neighbours,  nobody  would  think  that  they  knew 
any  thing  about  music,  and  drawing,  and  such  like ; 
and  to  see  them  in  company,  no  one  would  suspect  that 
they  had  ever  entered  the  kitchen,  or  visited  a  cottage. 
They  are  what  I  call  right,  real  ladies.  Half  the 
dressed-up  girls  that  hold  their  heads  so  high,  without 
a  guinea  in  their  purses,  would  think  it  far  beneath 
them  to  do  what  our  misses  do ;  but  real  gentlefolks 
can  afford  to  be  humble." 

In  due  time  Emma  and  Ruth  were  removed  from  the 
parental  roof,  and  connected  with  other  families.  Then 


198  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

were  the  faithful  care  and  judicious  management  of 
their  parents  fully  rewarded,  when  they  saw  the  ac- 
complishment of  their  fondest  wishes ;  "  their  daughters 
as  corner  stones  polished  after  the  similitude  of  a 
palace" — the  ornaments  and  stability  of  the  families  to 
which  they  belonged  and  those  with  which  they  con- 
nected themselves,  and  the  faithful  and  intelligent  de- 
positaries of  the  best  interests  of  future  generations- 
Both  entered  upon  domestic  life  with  flattering  pros- 
pects, and  were  happy  in  their  domestic  relations ;  but 
scenes  of  wo  as  well  as  of  pleasure  served  to  illustrate 
the  value  of  those  sound  principles  in  which  they  had 
been  educated,  and  of  that  religion  by  which  they  were 
actuated.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years  after  her  mar- 
riage, Emma  was  called  to  endure  much  personal  suf- 
fering and  great  anxiety  in  rearing  a  delicate  family ; 
but  her  meek  patience  and  submission  to  her  own  trials, 
and  her  unwearied  maternal  care,  tenderness,  and  dis- 
cretion, shone  with  a  mild  lustre  through  every  trying 
scene,  and  endeared  her  to  all  around  her.  "Her  hus- 
band praised  her  in  the  gates,  and  her  children  rose  up 
to  call  her  blessed."  Ruth  was  exercised  with  affliction 
of  a  different  kind.  She  became  the  mother  of  a  healthy, 
promising  group  of  children,  who  were  reared  with  so 
little  trouble  that  she  scarcely  knew  the  interruption 
of  a  night's  repose ;  but  the  beloved  partner  of  her  joys 
and  cares  fell  into  ill  health,  and  after  lingering  more 
tlian  a  year,  left  her,  a  young  widow  with  an  infant  fa- 
mily, in  a  great  measure  unprovided  for ;  their  income 
having  depended  on  the  father,  who  was  removed  at 
too  early  an  age  to  have  had  much  opportunity  of  sav- 
ing. The  violence  of  the  blow,  succeeding  a  season  of 
protracted   anxiety  and   indefatigable  exertion,  for   a 


THE    TWO    TRIOS.  jgg 

time  threatened  to  deprive  the  children  of  their  re- 
maining parent;  but  maternal  tenderness  proved  the 
counterpoise  to  overwhelming  grief.  She  aroused  her 
energies  to  supply  the  place  of  both  parents,  and  with 
uncommon  vigour,  perseverance,  and  success,  supported 
her  family  by  her  own  exertions — exertions  for  which 
a  well  regulated  education  aided  by  the  influential 
principles  of  religion  had  qualified  her.  She  enjoyed 
her  reward  in  the  gratitude  and  affections  of  a  lovely 
and  prosperous  family,  each  striving  to  be  foremost  in 
solacing  by  every  act  of  dutiful  and  filial  affection,  the 
declining  years  of  one  to  whom  they  were  so  deeply  in- 
debted. 

Louisa,  a  cousin  of  Emma  and  Ruth,  had  been  very 
differently  brought  up.  Not  so  much  from  pride  as 
from  false  indulgence,  her  mother  had  accustomed  her 
to  be  waited  upon  by  servants,  and  had  taken  no  pains 
to  give  her  an  idea  of  domestic  management,  or  female 
notability  of  any  kind.  Her  whole  attention  had  been 
devoted  to  fashionable  accomplishments  and  ingenious 
amusement.  When  the  second  of  her  cousins  was 
married,  Louisa  was  bridemaid  at  the  wedding,  and 
spent  a  few  weeks  beforehand  in  the  house  of  her  uncle 
and  aunt,  and  a  few  weeks  with  the  bride  after  her 
marriage.  This  visit  was  the  turning  point  in  Louisa's 
character ;  she  was  a  girl  of  native  good  sense,  energy 
of  mind,  and  docility  of  disposition.  The  scenes  she 
witnessed  were  to  her  perfectly  new  and  instructive. 
Her  aunt's  daily  inspection  of  domestic  affairs ;  the  ac- 
tivity and  independence  of  her  cousin  in  arranging  her 
own  little  affairs;  the  habitual  consideration  of  the 
whole  family  in  avoiding  needless  expense,  and  needless 
trouble  to  servants,  and  turning  to  account,  for  the  re- 


200  THE    TWO    TRIOS. 

lief  and  comfort  of  their  poor  neighbours,  those  scraps 
of  time,  and  provisions,  and  clothing-,  which  are  too 
often  suifered  to  waste.  Louisa  admired  the  quiet  in- 
dependence of  her  cousin,  in  almost  unconsciously 
doing-  those  things  for  herself,  which  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  ring  for  a  servant  to  do  for  her;  she  was 
delighted  by  the  humble,  simple  expressions  of  grati- 
tude poured  upon  her  by  the  poor,  old  and  young ;  and 
she  was  stirred,  not  to  envy,  but  to  emulation.  "And 
why,"  asked  she,  "  should  not  I  be  thus  useful,  inde- 
pendent, and  respectable]"  With  unaffected  humility 
slie  acknowledged  her  ignorance  and  errors,  and  begged 
to  be  permitted  to  attempt,  though  she  feared  she  should 
prove  but  an  awkward  assistant,  to  join  their  labours  of 
economy  and  charity.  She  soon  became  expert  in 
whatever  she  attempted ;  and  experienced  (as  all  per- 
sons of  her  disposition  who  make  the  attempt  will  do) 
tliat  to  be  usefully  employed,  brings  with  it  its  own 
pleasure  and  reward.  In  the  house  of  her  new  mar- 
ried cousin,  she  had  a  new  opportunity  of  observing  the 
value  of  discretion,  industry,  and  good  management,  in 
securing  the  largest  portion  of  comfort,  and  presenting 
the  most  elegant  and  tasteful  appearance,  at  the  least 
possible  expense.  She  saw  the  advantage  of  a  young 
mistress  commencing  housekeeping  with  such  a  degree 
of  domestic  knowledge  and  experience  as  enabled  her 
to  direct  her  servants,  instead  of  being  altogether  de- 
pendent on  them ;  and  she  resolved  to  spare  no  pains 
in  acquiring  similar  knowledge.  From  the  house  of 
the  bride  she  went  to  that  of  her  sister,  who  already 
had  two  little  ones.  There  she  gained  a  little  knowledge 
of  nursing  and  managing  infants,  and  attending  to  their 
clotliing.     She  was  astonished  at  the  trifling  pursuits 


THE    TWO   TRIOS. 


201 


that  had  hitherto  engrossed  her  attention,  and  went 
home  resolved  to  employ  a  portion,  and  that  a  large 
portion,  of  every  day,  in  works  of  real  utility  for  her- 
self and  others.  In  this  resolution  she  steadily  perse- 
vered and  improved;  and  not  very  long  afterwards  her- 
self entered  on  domestic  life,  and  became  not  only  an 
amiable  and  affectionate,  but  also  a  judicious  and  active 

wife  and  mother, 

♦i 

Oxford,  (Eng.) 


C  C 


202 


LOOKING    TO    JESUS. 

BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

In  the  hour  of  trial, 

Jesus,  pray  for  me, 
Lest  by  base  denial, 

I  dishonour  thee ; 
When  thou  seest  me  waver, 

With  a  look  recall ; 
Nor  for  fear  or  favour, 

Suffer  me  to  fall. 

With  its  witching  pleasures. 

Would  this  vain  world  charm. 
Or  its  sordid  treasures 

Spread,  to  work  me  harm. 
Bring  to  my  remembrance 

Sad  Gethsemane, 
Or,  in  darker  semblance, 

Cross-crown'd  Calvary. 

If,  with  sore  affliction. 

Thou  in  love  chastise, 
Pour  thy  benediction 

On  the  sacrifice ; 
Then,  upon  thine  altar. 

Freely  ofter'd  up, 
Though  the  flesh  may  falter. 

Faith  shall  drink  the  cup. 


A    MIDNIGHT    THOUGHT.  203 

When,  in  dust  and  ashes, 

To  the  grave  I  sink, 
While  heaven's  glory  flashes 

O'er  the  shelving  brink, 
On  thy  truth  relying, 

Through  that  mortal  strife, 
Lord,  receive  me  dying 

To  eternal  life. 


Sheffield,  (Eng.)  1836. 


A  MIDNIGHT  THOUGHT. 

BY  MISS  JANE  W.  FRASER. 

As  late,  I  musing  sat,  in  pensive  mood. 

Soft  slumber  weigh'd  my  heavy  eyelids  down ; 

Straight,  at  my  side  my  guardian  angel  stood, 
His  radiant  visage  shaded  by  a  frown. 

"  And  sleep'st  thou  here,"  with  voice  severe  he  cries, 
"  While  unimprov'd,  thy  hours  so  swiftly  pass  1 

With  jealous  haste,  each  busy  moment  flies. 

And  shakes,  with  rushing  wing.  Time's  marking  glass. 

"  Each  tiny  atom,  in  its  noiseless  fall, 
To  Reason's  ear  a  speaking  echo  gives ; 

And  startled  conscience  hears  the  awak'ning  call. 
Breaks  from  her  death-like  trance,  and  feels  she  lives." 


204  A    MIDNIGHT    THOUGHT. 

Arous'd — alarm'd — I  hear  the  stern  demand, 
"  Restore  the  talent  which  I  gave  to  thee ; 

'Twas  small,  'tis  true,  and  ask'd  a  careful  hand — 
But  as  I  gave  it,  give  it  back  to  me." 

Neglected  long,  and  dimm'd  the  polish'd  ore, 
Rusted,  misus'd,  and  wasting  to  decay, 

Cumber'd  with  w^eak  resolves,  a  useless  store. 
Its  value  lost,  the  buried  talent  lay. 

The  clock's  loud  tongue  spoke  midnight's  solemn  hour- 
I  woke — no  seraph  watch'd  beside  my  chair ; 

But  pious  Fancy  saw  th'  ascending  Pow'r 
Bear  to  the  mercy-seat  this  humble  prayer. 

Father !  forgive  the  follies  of  my  youth — 

Forgive  the  errors  of  my  riper  age ; 
Teach  me  to  know  "  the  way,  the  life,  the  truth," 

And  write  my  name  on  Heaven's  undying  page. 

Bordentown,  (N.  J.) 


205 


THE  POLISH  EXILE. 


BY  MISS  CATHARINE  H.  WATERMAN. 


Night  set  on  Poland's  sinking  sun, 
Her  harrow'd  cities  darken'd  stood, 

And  the  last  light  of  day  went  down 
On  fields  of  carnage  and  of  blood : 

The  insulting  victors  proudly  strode 
Across  its  desolated  plain ; 

The  clanging  hoofs  of  chargers  trode 
4»,  O'er  tombless  heaps  of  early  slain; 

^  And  like  a  waning  star  of  night, 

Its  glories  melted  from  the  sight. 

But  one  went  forth  to  exile  there, 

The  eagle  of  his  eye  untam'd — 
An  aged  Pole,  whose  hoary  hair 

Left  free  the  brow  fear  never  sham'd; 
He  w  ept  not — for  the  fount  of  tears 

Within  their  burning  cells  were  dried; 
He  wept  not,  though  a  father's  fears 

Soften'd  the  marble  of  his  pride : 
One  proud  and  piercing  look  he  cast. 
Where  foeman's  shouts  rung  on  the  blHst. 


206  THE   POLISH   EXILE. 

His  glance  had  caught  the  curling  blaze 

Circling  o'er  Warsaw's  flaming  wall; 
Had  seen,  amid  its  flickering  rays, 

Its  towers  of  strength  and  grandeur  fall : 
Afar  its  fertile  valley  rose, 

A  blacken'd  mass  'neath  hostile  tread, 
A  yawning  vault,  for  savage  foes 

To  people  with  his  country's  dead; 
A  couch,  whereon  his  comrades  sleep 
In  death — and  yet  he  could  not  weep. 

He  could  not  w^eep,  though  tears  of  wo 

Fell  from  the  dark  and  shaded  eyes, 
That  ever  wore,  for  him,  the  glow 

Of  summer  midnight's  starlit  skies ; 
Though  the  still  hand  in  silence  lay 

Within  his  own — no  answering  clasp 
Warm'd  the  benumb'd  and  chilly  clay. 

That  clung  with  fondness  to  his  grasp ; 
A  daughter's  tears,  though  thick  as  rain. 
Peopled  not  Poland's  plains  again. 

Though  on  his  proud  and  sw^elling  breast. 

With  upturn'd  orbs  of  earnest  gaze. 
The  bright  and  shining  head  did  rest. 

Of  her,  the  darling  of  his  days; 
She,  his  last  child,  who  sadly  hung 

In  sorrow  on  his  bosom  now; 
Around  whose  form  his  arm  was  flung, 

She  drove  not  sternness  from  his  brow. 
O'er  his  crush'd  heart  wild  passions  sweep. 
The  exil'd  patriot  could  not  weep. 


THOU   ART   OF   MY   SPIRIT.  207 

"  Vengeance  is  mine" — a  voice  from  heaven 

Spake  gently  in  the  exile's  ear ; 
"  Vengeance  is  mine — though  lance  be  riven, 

And  crush'd,  awhile,  the  broken  spear." 
As  sunshine,  through  a  darken'd  sky, 

Scatters  the  storm-clouds  hovering  round, 
E'en  so  that  murmur  from  on  high, 

The  ice-chain  round  his  heart  unbound ; 
He  wept  for  children,  home,  and  rights — 
God,  for  his  suffering  Poland,  smites. 

Philadelphia. 


THOU  ART  OF  MY  SPIRIT. 

Lines  to  one  loho  had  mind  as  well  as  heart  in  her  religion. 


BY  GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 


Thou  art  of  my  spirit,  and  thine  eye 
Is  pregnant  with  that  language  which  I  love. 
I  read  in  that  deep  fountain  of  its  light. 
Which  seems  but  more  unfathom'd  as  I  gaze. 
All  that  I  dream  of  a  celestial  birth — 
The  loveliness  and  lustre  of  that  sphere 
Which  bands  unearthly  traverse — with  the  stars 
As  their  companions,  and  the  silent  sky 
The  radiant  pathway  of  their  tireless  tread ! 
I  can  drr",  V  n^ar  thee,  and  thy  presence  comes 
Upon  ..  i  like  a  shadow  that  I  feel. 


208  THOU   ART  OF   MY   SPIRIT. 

Bring-ing-  repose  and  luxury ;  and,  within 

Whose  mellow'd  glory,  I  can  gather  me 

As  to  some  worship  that  restores  the  heart 

And  makes  my  being  better.     I  can  feel 

Thy  spirit  coming,  as  some  holier  thing, 

That  would  hold  look  and  utterance  with  mine ; 

I  have  that  sympathy  with  thee,  that  ne'er 

Goes  like  an  answering  pulse  to  the  deep  place, 

The  temple  of  my  nature,  save  from  souls 

That  seem,  even  now,  more  conversant  with  heaven 

And  its  vast  page  of  mysteries,  than  all 

The  earth  can  offer  in  its  loveliness. 

Or  joy,  or  hope,  or  greatness.    I  can  sit, 

And  hear  thee  tell  of  that  philosophy 

Thou  from  thy  spirit's  deeps  hast  drawn,  untouch'd 

By  systems  of  an  earth  made  dark  by  man, 

Or  by  dim  theory  contaminate. 

That  only  withers  hearts  on  which  it  lowers ! 

Thine  is  a  wisdom  that  acknowledges 

No  source  but  intimations  from  the  sky. 

To  which  hope  beckons  thee,  and  which  have  come 

In  the  night-watches,  and  those  holier  times 

When  solitude  is  heaven,  and  God  the  theme ! 

Thine  is  no  rob'd  religion  of  the  earth, 

Form'd  of  a  creed,  or  sanctified  by  lawn ! 

Thy  prayer  is  heard  not,  and  thy  bended  knee 

Knows  but  this  altar  of  immensity ! 

Thy  worship  is  the  worship  of  a  child ; 

The  spirit  that  as  to  a  father  bows 

For  guidance  and  forgiveness,  and  lies  down 

In  slumber  of  sweet  dreams,  'mid  night  and  storm. 

Believing  promises  that  never  die  ! 

Portland,  (Mc.) 


209 


RECOLLECTIONS 


OF 


Mrs.  HANNAH  MORE  &  W.  WILBERFORCE,  Esq. 

BY  WILLIAM  B.  SPRAGUE,  D.D. 

There  is  a  charm  in  moral  excellence,  indepen- 
dently of  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  found,  and 
the  qualities  with  which  it  is  combined.  Neither  the 
utmost  external  degradation,  nor  the  humblest  intel- 
lectual endowments,  can  neutralize  the  power  or  love- 
liness of  eminent  virtue.  But  when  it  happens  to  be 
associated  with  mental  superiority  and  worldly  distinc- 
tion— when  it  kindles  the  fires  of  genius,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  grows  brighter  in  the  light  that  is  reflected 
from  them,  and  a  broad  and  glorious  field  opens  for  its 
operation,  it  shines  out  upon  us  with  unaccustomed 
attractions,  and  we  instinctively  associate  with  it  the 
idea  of  distinguished  usefulness.  A  character  com- 
bining intellectual  greatness  with  exalted  virtue  must 
ever  awaken  veneration ;  but  perhaps  we  never  feel  our 
deepest  sense  of  its  value,  till  death  has  impressed  upon 
it  the  stamp  of  immutability ;  for,  in  this  state  of  imper- 
fection, we  can  have  no  certain  pledge  but  that  a  career 
of  most  eminent  usefulness  may  be  prematurely  termi- 
nated through  the  influence  of  some  sudden  temptation; 
that  the  sun  that  shines  brightest  at  noonday  may  not 
go  down  amidst  the  darkness  and  horrors  of  a  tempest. 

D  d 


210  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

But  when  the  last  act  of  life  has  been  performed,  and 
it  has  been  the  crowning  of  a  virtuous  and  honourable 
career ;  when  the  sun  has  actually  set,  and  there  has 
been  no  cloud  or  storm  to  obscure  the  glory  of  its  last 
beams,  we  have  the  whole  character  before  us,  and  we 
feel  no  apprehension  of  any  future  unpropitious  change. 
Such  preeminently  were  the  characters  of  Mrs.  More 
and  Mr.  Wilberforce ;  and  such  are  the  circumstances 
in  which  we  are  now  permitted  to  contemplate  them. 

It  was  my  privilege  a  few  years  ago,  while  on  a 
hasty  tour  through  England,  to  visit  both  these  illustri- 
ous personages.  They  were  then  in  the  evening  of  life, 
with  the  vigour  of  their  intellectual  faculties  but  little 
abated,  and  in  the  serene  enjoyment  of  every  blessing 
that  could  render  old  age  desirable.  Since  that  period 
they  have  both  finished  their  course  with  joy,  and  the 
character  of  each  has  become  emphatically  the  property 
of  the  world.  They  were  united  in  life  by  an  uninter- 
rupted and  most  endearing  friendship;  and  they  are 
especially  united  in  my  grateful  remembrance  from  the 
fact  that  I  was  indebted  to  one  of  them  for  my  introduc- 
tion to  the  other.  Though  several  years  have  passed 
away  since  I  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  them,  my  re- 
collections of  what  they  were  are  still  perfectly  distincf ; 
and  I  trust  I  shall  not  offend  against  decorum,  if,  in 
complying  with  a  request  from  the  respected  editor  of 
tliis  Annual,  I  record  these  recollections  in  connexion 
with  such  more  general  remarks  as  they  naturally 
suggest. 

It  was  one  of  the  resolutions  that  I  took  with  me 
across  the  Atlantic,  that  I  would,  if  possible,  gain  an 
introduction  to  that  illustrious  man  whose  name,  more 
perhaps  than  any  other  among  the  living,  I  had  been 


W.    WILBERFORCE.  211 

accustomed  from  my  childhood  to  reverence  as  but  an- 
other name  for  Christian  Philanthropy.  After  my  arrival 
in   London,  however,  in  consequence  of  being  incor- 
rectly informed  that  his  residence  was  in  a  remote  part 
of  England,  which  my  limited  time  would  not  allow  me 
to  visit,  I  had  felt  myself  compelled  to  abandon  the 
hope  of  seeing  him ;  and  it  was  only  by  accident,  and  a 
day  or  two  before  my  departure,  that  I  learned  that  his 
residence  was  but  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  metro- 
polis.    Having  been  favoured  with  a  note  of  introduc- 
tion to  him,  I  left  London  in  the  morning  with  a  much 
valued  friend,  with  a  view  to  make  his  acquaintance ; 
and,  after  a  pleasant  ride  of  an  hour  and  a  half,  we 
were  set  down  by  his  dwelling  on  Highwood  Hill. 
The  servant  who  took  my  letter  to  Mr.  Wilberforce,  re- 
turned, saying  that  he  would  soon  be  with  us ;  and  within 
a  few  moments  we  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him. 
His  personal  appearance,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  was 
precisely  as  it  is  represented  in  the  engraved  portrait 
of  him,  which  was  published  in  one  of  the  London  Re- 
ligious Annuals  of  the  last  year.    He  was  rather  below 
the  middle  size,  and  his  head,  as  if  by  some  nervous 
contraction,  was  slightly  inclined   towards   the   right 
shoulder.     What  first  impressed  me  was,  the  uncom- 
monly benign  expression  of  his  countenance ;  and  the 
moment  he  opened  his  lips,  his  face  seemed  completely 
illuminated  with  kindness.     And  it  was  not  benignity 
alone,  but  benignity  united  with  intelligence ;  a  genius 
that  could  kindle,  as  well  as  a  heart  that  could  warm ; 
and  if  the  moral  qualities  struck  me  more  forcibly  at  first, 
it  required  but  a  moment  to  perceive,  that  in  the  coun- 
tenance as  in  the  character,  the  moral  and  the  intel- 
lectual were  most  harmoniously  blended.     There  was 


212  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

a  frankness  and  a  warmth  in  his  manner  which  made 
me  almost  instantly  forget  the  greatness  of  his  name, 
and  drew  forth  my  feelings  towards  him,  as  if,  instead 
of  being  a  venerable  stranger,  he  had  been  the  watch- 
ful guardian  of  my  life.  When  I  declined  his  kind  in- 
vitation to  dine  with  him,  in  consequence  of  being 
previously  engaged,  he  urged  me  to  mention  some  day 
when  I  should  be  more  at  leisure ;  and  when  I  told 
him  of  my  intention  almost  immediately  to  leave  the 
country,  he  expressed  his  surprise  at  the  brevity  of  my 
visit,  and  remarked  that  he  wished  to  introduce  me  to 
his  family,  that,  if  I  should  ever  return  to  England,  I 
might  visit  them,  though  he  probably  should  not  be 
there  to  receive  me.  He  showed  us  an  engraved  portrait 
of  his  friend  William  Pitt — the  only  good  one,  he  said, 
that  had  ever  been  taken ;  and,  while  he  spoke  of  him 
in  terms  of  strong  aftection,  a  feeling  of  melancholy 
evidently  passed  over  him,  in  replying  to  some  question 
that  I  asked  in  respect  to  Pitt's  religious  character. 
He  paid  the  highest  possible  tribute  to  the  genius  of 
Robert  Hall,  expressing  the  opinion  that  he  was  inferior 
to  no  man  of  the  age.  Of  our  own  distinguished  coun- 
trymen, Dr.  Dwight  and  Dr.  Mason,  he  expressed  a 
strong  admiration  :  the  former  he  knew  well  by  his 
invaluable  writings ;  to  the  eloquence  of  the  latter  he 
had  repeatedly  listened.  He  dwelt  with  great  interest 
on  the  importance  of  the  friendly  relations  between 
Great  Britam  and  America  being  preserved  ;  and 
spoke  in  terms  of  decided  reprobation  of  the  offensive 
and  ill-natured  statements  concerning  our  country, 
that  have  too  often  been  given  by  English  travellers ; 
while  he  mentioned  with  regret  a  single  instance  in 
which  British  institutions  had  been  traduced,  as  he 


W.    WILBERFORCE.  213 

thought,  by  an  American.  He  gave  me  a  splendid 
copy  of  his  "  Practical  View ;"  and,  in  speaking*  of  the 
work,  expressed  the  deepest  gratitude  to  God  for  having 
rendered  it  in  so  high  a  degree  useful ;  and  added,  that 
soon  after  it  was  published  he  sent  a  copy  of  it  to 
Burke,  who,  after  reading  it,  assured  him  that  it  had 
his  cordial  approbation.  His  moral  character  seemed 
to  me  a  perfect  compound  of  benevolence  and  humility. 
In  every  instance  in  which  he  spoke  of  himself,  it  was 
in  a  manner  which  indicated  the  deepest  conviction 
that,  in  whatever  good  he  had  accomplished,  he  had 
only  borne  the  part  of  an  unworthy  instrument ;  and 
that  to  a  sovereign  and  gracious  God  belonged  all  the 
glory.  Notwithstanding  his  advanced  age  and  bodily 
infirmities,  his  mind  was  fruitful  in  expedients  for  doing 
good ;  and  he  occasionally  appeared  in  public,  not  only 
then,  but  at  a  still  later  period,  to  help  forward  the 
great  objects  of  benevolence  to  which  he  had  long  been 
devoted.  When  I  left  him,  I  felt  that  I  was  receiving 
the  benediction  of  a  patriarch.  The  impression  made 
upon  me  by  the  calm  dignity  of  his  manner,  and  the 
kindness  and  heavenliness  of  his  spirit,  will  be  one  of 
the  last  impressions  to  fade  from  my  mind.  It  was  my 
first  and  last  meeting  with  him ;  for,  as  he  predicted, 
before  my  next  visit  to  England,  he  had  gone  the  way 
whence  he  should  not  return. 

Within  a  few  days  after  this  delightful  visit  at  High- 
wood  Hill,  I  was  passing  a  short  time  at  Bristol,  and 
availed  myself  of  the  opportunity  of  riding  out  to  Bar- 
leywood,  distant  I  think  about  nine  miles,  the  far-famed 
residence  of  Mrs.  More.  The  morning  was  fine,  the 
country  exceedingly  beautiful,  my  company  altogether 
agreeable,  and  every  thing  adapted  to  prepare  me  for  a 


214  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

luxurious  intellectual  and  social  repast.  When  we 
had  travelled  nearly  our  distance  we  turned  off  from 
the  main  road,  and  almost  immediately  saw  Mrs.  More's 
dwelling  before  us.  It  was  a  beautiful  thatched  cot- 
tage, situated  on  rising  ground,  with  a  fine  garden  in 
the  rear,  and  every  thing  about  it  to  indicate  the 
most  exquisite  taste  and  the  most  minute  and  pa- 
tient labour.  It  was  with  no  small  gratification  that  I 
learned  from  the  servant  that  Mrs.  More  was  in  com- 
fortable health  and  would  be  able  to  receive  us ;  as  I 
had  previously  heard  that  she  had  been  suffering  a  few 
days  before  from  indisposition,  and  it  was  quite  doubtful 
whether  any  attempt  to  see  her  would  not  be  ineftectual. 
As  I  entered  the  room  where  she  was  sitting,  she  rose 
and  met  me  with  an  air  of  great  cordiality;  and,  like 
her  illustrious  friend  whom  I  had  seen  the  week  before, 
instantly  put  me  as  much  at  my  ease  as  if  I  had  known 
her  during  my  whole  life.  My  introductory  note  from 
Mr.  Wilberforce  led  her  immediately  to  inquire  for 
him ;  and  then  she  dwelt  for  some  time,  with  the  deep- 
est interest,  on  his  exalted  character,  especially  as  a 
Christian ;  on  the  pertinence,  and  fervour,  and  pathos 
of  his  prayers  in  her  family ;  and  on  the  value  of  his 
friendship,  which,  she  said,  she  had  known  during  much 
the  greater  part  of  her  life.  She  alluded,  in  a  very 
touching  manner,  to  the  fact  that  she  was  standing 
almost  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  new  generation ;  that 
nearly  all  her  early,  and  many  of  her  later  friends,  had 
gone  before  her  to  their  long  home ;  and  while  she 
mentioned  the  names  of  many  of  them  with  deep  emo- 
tion, she  seemed  to  dwell  with  special  delight  upon  the 
memory  of  Bishop  Porteus :  indeed,  she  had  testified  her 
veneration  for  him  by  erecting  a  monument  to  his  me- 


/ 


W.    WILBERFORCE. 


215 


mory  in  her  garden,  which  she  requested  me  particu- 
larly to  observe  as  I  passed  over  her  grounds.     Of  the 
Princess  Charlotte  she  spoke  in  no  measured  terms  of 
commendation.     She  regarded  her  quite  as  a  model  in 
the  station  she  occupied,  and  expressed  a  strong  hope 
that  she  died  a  true  Christian.     She  remarked,  as  a 
peculiarity  in  her  experience,  that  she  had  never  been 
able  to  quote  from  her  own  writings ;  that  she  could 
not  even  distinguish  her  own  style  on  hearing  it  read ; 
and  that  one  of  her  young  friends  had  sometimes  amused 
herself  by  reading  to  her  extracts  from  her  own  works, 
and  getting  her  opinion  of  them,  while  she  supposed 
herself  passing  judgment  upon  another  author.    In  pre- 
senting to  me  her  work  on  "  The  Spirit  of  Prayer," 
she  expressed  the  deepest  sense  of  the  importance  of 
the  subject,  and  remarked  that  the  work  was  chiefly  a 
compilation  from  her  other  works,  and  made  at  a  time 
when  she  supposed  herself  on  the  threshold  of  eternity, 
and  that  its  circulation  had  altogether  exceeded  her 
highest  expectations.     She  dwelt  with  great  interest 
on  the  happy  state  of  our  country,  and  especially  on  its 
religious  privileges  and  prospects;  though  I  thought 
she  discovered  some  lack  of  confidence  in  the  durability 
of  our  institutions.     She  made  many  kind  inquiries  in 
respect  to  different  individuals  whom  she  had  known 
either  personally  or  by  correspondence  in  this  country, 
and  particularly  concerning  her  "  little  deaf  and  dumb 
friend,"   (Miss   Alice   Cogswell,   of  Hartford,   whose 
lamented  death  has  occurred  since  that  time,)  who,  she 
said,  had  written  her  the  wittiest  letters  she  ever  re- 
ceived.    She  showed  me  the  beautiful  and  variegated 
prospect  which  she  had  from  her  different  windows, 
and  then  sent  a  servant  to  conduct  me  over  her  grounds. 


216  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

requesting  me  to  notice  particular  objects,  which,  by 
reason  of  their  associations,  were  specially  interesting 
to  her.  She  manifested  the  kindest  regard  for  my 
health,  and  begged  me  to  beware  of  excitement,  as  she 
was  sure  it  was  far  less  easy  to  endure  than  sorrow. 
There  is  one  portrait  of  her — I  believe  the  last  that 
was  taken — that  brings  her  before  me  nearly  as  she 
was  at  the  time  I  saw  her.  Her  person  was  marked 
by  the  most  beautiful  symmetry;  her  countenance 
beamed  with  animation  and  benevolence ;  and  her  man- 
ners united  the  dignity  of  the  court  with  the  simplicity 
of  childhood.  When  I  left  her,  she  gave  me  a  most 
gratifying  assurance  of  her  friendly  regard,  and  subse- 
quently honoured  me  with  several  invaluable  commu- 
nications. 

And  now  that  the  grave  has  closed  upon  both  these 
excellent  and  honoured  individuals,  it  is  not  less  a  pri- 
vilege than  a  duty  to  call  to  mind  what  they  have  been 
and  what  they  have  done,  and  to  gather  from  their  ex- 
ample fresh  encouragements  to  a  life  of  virtuous  and 
useful  activity.  Of  both  of  them  it  may  emphatically 
be  said,  that  they  were  called  to  hold  forth  the  word  of 
life  in  the  midst  of  a  crooked  and  perverse  generation ; 
and  that  their  path  was  indeed  as  the  shining  light, 
shining  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day.  At  the 
time  when  their  career  commenced,  there  was  hardly 
a  leaven  of  experimental  Christianity  in  the  higher 
circles  of  British  society ;  and  no  doubt  to  them,  far 
more  than  to  any  other  two  individuals,  belong  the  ho- 
nour of  having  rescued  vital  godliness  in  a  great  mea- 
sure from  reproach,  and  administered  a  rebuke  to  infi- 
delity and  formalism,  which  has  been  felt  throughout 
the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  empire.     Wilber- 


W.    WILBERFORCE.  217 

force  may  be  regarded  as  having  had  a  two-fold  instru- 
mentality in  the  moral  improvement  of  the  age.  While 
he  was  the  great  champion  of  human  freedom,  and 
conducted  to  its  result  one  of  the  noblest  efforts  that 
was  ever  made  for  letting  the  oppressed  go  free,  he  also 
laboured  with  the  zeal  of  a  reformer  in  the  great  cause 
of  practical  godliness ;  and  not  only  by  his  conversation 
and  example,  but  especially  by  his  writings,  contributed 
to  elevate  the  standard  of  Christian  character  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  While  his  exalted  powers  not 
less  than  his  public  relations  brought  him  perpetually 
in  contact  with  men  possessing  the  noblest  intellects, 
and  occupying  the  highest  stations,  the  meekness  and 
benevolence  of  his  spirit,  the  purity  and  blamelessness 
of  his  life,  were  a  standing  recommendation  of  the  re- 
ligion he  professed ;  and  the  influence  of  these  qualities, 
when  combined  with  that  of  his  direct  efforts  in  behalf 
of  the  spiritual  interests  of  men,  it  is  impossible  ad- 
equately to  estimate.  And  as  for  his  venerated  friend, 
her  course  was  also  marked  by  a  deep  and  ever  growing 
desire  to  bless  the  world  and  glorify  God.  In  early  life 
she  was  no  stranger  in  the  circles  of  fashion,  and  she 
drew  forth  the  admiration  of  the  gay  as  well  as  the 
great ;  but  her  character  came  more  and  more  under 
a  religious  influence,  till  she  seemed  almost  to  have 
reached  the  fulness  of  the  stature  of  a  perfect  person  in 
Christ.  Much  of  her  intercourse  was  with  the  honour- 
able and  the  noble ;  and  she  turned  it  to  the  best  ac- 
count in  endeavouring  to  impress  them  with  the  para- 
mount importance  of  that  honour  which  cometh  from 
God  only.  Nay,  her  influence  was  felt  in  the  royal 
family,  in  moulding  the  character  of  one  to  whom  would 
have  been  committed,  under  God,  if  she  had  lived,  the 

E  e 


218  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

destinies  of  the  British  nation.  She  was  also,  for  many 
years,  directly  active  in  superintending  the  education 
of  a  large  number  of  females  from  the  higher  walks  of 
society,  some  of  whom,  at  this  day,  are  among  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  the  age.  But  it  was  as  a  writer 
that  she  exerted  the  most  extensive  and  permanent  in- 
fluence. With  the  most  attractive  style,  and  the  most 
weighty  and  often  glowing  thoughts,  she  threw  around 
her  subject,  whatever  it  might  be,  an  indescribable 
charm  ;  and  her  subject  was  always  worthy  of  the 
powers  she  employed  upon  it.  No  writer  in  any  lan- 
guage has  contributed  equally  with  herself  to  elevate 
the  standard  of  female  education  and  female  character ; 
and,  though  her  works  have  passed  through  a  multitude 
of  editions  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  they  are  still 
read  with  undiminished  eagerness ;  and  not  to  be  fa- 
miliar with  them  is  scarcely  less  than  a  reflection  upon 
one's  desire  for  improvement.  Happy  for  the  world 
that  her  intellectual  efforts  were  so  much  in  the  way 
of  writing ;  as,  by  this  means,  she  has  not  only  exerted 
a  mighty  influence  on  the  character  of  the  generations 
that  were  contemporary  with  her,  but  made  provision 
for  the  propagation  of  her  influence  through  all  coming 
generations. 

What  shining  examples  are  these  two  individuals  to 
all,  and  especially  to  those  who  have  their  lot  cast  in 
the  higher  circles  of  society!  Be  it  so,  that  there  are 
comparatively  few  as  eminently  gifted  in  respect  to  in- 
tellectual endowments  as  they  were ;  yet  there  are 
none  to  whom  are  not  furnished  many  opportunities  for 
doing  good.  And  how  are  these  opportunities  gener- 
ally improved  1  How  is  it  even  with  the  mass  of  pro- 
fessed Christians  1     Are  they  not,   to   a   melancholy 


W.    WILBERFORCE.  219 

extent,  absorbed  in  self-gratification,  without  any  dis- 
tinct purpose  of  living-  for  the  benefit  of  their  fellow 
men?  And  do  they  not,  by  this  means,  bring  a  re- 
proach upon  that  blessed  name  by  which  they  are 
called]  Ye  men  and  ye  women  of  influence  and  ho- 
nour, there  is  a  voice  from  the  grave  of  Wilberforce 
and  of  Hannah  More,  charging  you  to  improve  your 
talents  for  the  benefit  of  society,  and  with  reference  to 
your  own  final  account.  Is  it  not  a  shame  that  any 
should  be  contented  to  live  for  themselves,  to  whom 
God  has  given  the  power  of  becoming  benefactors  to 
the  world  ] 

Wilberforce  and  Mrs.  More  were  intimate  friends ; 
and  no  doubt  for  much  of  the  good  which  they  enjoyed 
and  accomplished,  they  were  mutually  indebted  to 
each  other's  influence.  They  had  the  same  great  ob- 
jects in  view ;  not  merely  their  own  personal  sanctifica- 
tion,  but  the  promotion  of  the  best  interests  of  mankind, 
and  especially  the  revival  of  spiritual  religion  among 
the  higher  classes  of  their  own  countrymen ;  and  for 
these  objects  they  were  fellow  helpers  together  for 
nearly  half  a  century.  How  much  each  was  strength- 
ened and  assisted  by  the  example,  and  counsels,  and 
prayers  of  the  other,  the  light  of  the  judgment  day 
alone  will  fully  reveal ;  but  that  they  had  much  of  the 
spirit  of  mutual  reliance  and  Christian  co-operation 
during  a  considerable  part  of  their  lives,  admits  not  of 
question.  And  herein  also  are  they  an  example  to  all 
the  disciples  of  Christ  who  come  after  them.  Alas ! 
that  there  should  be  so  little  of  that  spirit  among  pro- 
fessed Christians,  which  unites  them  in  the  hallowed 
bonds  of  a  strong  and  endeared  intimacy ;  which  dis- 
poses them  to  assist  each  other's  labours,  and  bear  each 


220  HANNAH    MORE,    AND 

other's  burdens,  and  be  fellow  helpers  of  each  other's 
joy !  Would  to  God  there  might  be  a  revival  of  Chris- 
tian love,  and  then  there  would  be  a  revival  of  Christian 
zeal,  of  Christian  purity,  of  every  thing  that  marks  an 
elevated  standard  of  Christian  character  I  If  there 
were  more  in  our  own  land  who,  like  these  venerable 
and  now  departed  saints,  were  united  in  efforts,  not  to 
advance  the  interests  of  a  sect,  but  to  aid  the  great 
cause  of  truth  and  righteousness,  we  might  anticipate 
the  time  as  near  at  hand  when  our  American  Zion 
will  look  forth  fair  as  the  sun,  clear  as  the  moon,  and 
terrible  on  account  of  her  numbers  as  an  army  with 
banners. 

As  these  excellent  and  venerated  individuals  were 
so  intimately  connected  in  life,  in  death  also  they  were 
scarcely  divided  ;  at  least  it  was  but  a  brief  period  that 
intervened  between  the  departure  of  the  one  and  of  the 
other.  They  both  died  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  life 
they  had  lived :  if  there  was  not  the  glory  of  a  transla- 
tion, there  was  a  hallowed  serenity  which  might  have 
attracted,  and  no  doubt  did  attract,  angels  to  their 
dying  beds.  Multitudes  on  earth  heard  of  their  de- 
parture with  sorrow,  while  myriads  in  heaven  doubtless 
welcomed  their  arrival  with  joy.  And  now  they,  who 
were  united  here  as  fellow  labourers  for  Christ,  are 
united  in  the  world  above  in  celebrating  the  riches 
of  his  grace,  by  casting  their  crowns  at  his  feet.  What 
a  delightful  intimacy  may  w^e  suppose  they  enjoy  as 
ransomed  and  glorified  spirits !  What  emotions  of 
transport  do  they  feel  in  the  review  of  their  pilgrimage 
here ; — in  the  recollection  of  the  obstacles  they  were 
enabled  to  overcome,  of  the  good  they  were  enabled 
to  accomplish,  of  the  prize  they  were  enabled  to  win. 


W.    WILBERFORCE. 


221 


through  the  abounding-  grace  of  an  Almighty  Re- 
deemer. As  they  go  forward  in  an  endless  career  from 
glory  to  glory,  may  we  not  suppose  that  the  relation 
they  have  sustained  to  each  other,  and  the  influence 
they  have  exerted  upon  each  other,  on  earth,  will  sup- 
ply one  of  the  elements  of  their  eternal  joy ! 

How  inconceivably  glorious  must  be  the  heavenly 
world!  It  was  a  privilege  to  come  in  contact  with 
such  exalted  minds  on  earth ;  but  how  much  greater 
the  privilege  to  mingle  with  them,  now  that  the  last 
vestige  of  imperfection  is  removed,  and  they  operate 
with  an  unwearied  and  immortal  energy !  And  there 
are  minds  there  greater  and  nobler  than  even  these : 
there  are  higher  orders  of  being  there,  who  yet  count 
it  no  condescension  to  become  the  associates  of  ran- 
somed men.  And  can  I  hope  then  ever  to  be  joined  to 
the  glorified  society  of  the  world  above ;  to  be  united 
with  the  great  and  good  who  were  natives  of  this  earth, 
and  the  greater  and  the  holier  who  are  natives  of  hea- 
ven, in  celebrating  the  praise  and  doing  the  will  of  the 
All-merciful  and  All-glorious !  May  I  aspire  even  to 
wear  an  immortal  wreath,  and  occupy  a  heavenly 
throne,  both  purchased  by  redeeming  blood !  Then  let 
me  live  and  labour  for  heaven!  Let  earthly  objects 
fade  from  my  view,  and  heavenly  objects  brighten  upon 
my  vision !  Let  me  be  any  thing — let  me  sufl'er  any 
thing,  let  me  even  die  a  martyr's  death,— only  let  my 
spirit  at  last  be  a  glorified  spirit,  and  my  associates  for 
eternity  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord  ! 

Albany,  (N.  Y.) 


.«r 


222 


THE  BELIEVER'S  PROSPECT. 

By  D.  A.  s. 

The  following:  stanzas  were  written  and  sent  to  the  editor  by  one 
who  is  now  numbered  witli  the  dead.  She  who,  when  these  lines  were 
penned,  was  drinking  deep  into  the  cup  of  earthly  sorrow,  has  gone 
to  experience  the  truth,  the  fulness  and  reality  of  those  heavenly  joys 
which  she  then  saw  through  a  glass  darkly. 

There  is  a  time — an  hour  of  peace, 
When  I  no  more  shall  think  of  wo ; 

A  time  when  anxious  cares  shall  cease, 
When  I  shall  leave  this  world  below. 

There  is  a  place  above  the  sky, 

Where  wearied  travellers  find  a  home — 

Where  ne'er  is  heard  the  parting  sigh — 
Where  pain  and  sorrow  never  come. 

There  is  a  Saviour — one  who  died 
To  save  my  soul  from  endless  wo : 

In  him  I  trust; — I've  naught  beside — 
He  gives  me  peace  and  pardon  too. 


223 


THE  PAWNEE  GROUP. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Late  in  January,  1836,  just  as  the  first  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  were  beginning  to  gild  the  tops  of  the  high- 
est hills,  a  sleigh,  drawn  by  a  strong  pair  of  horses,  was 
seen  descending  one  of  the  dark  gorges  that  abound  in 
the  upland  and  mountainous  regions  in  the  northern 
part  of  Herkimer  county,  New  York.  The  preceding 
night  had  been  one  of  storm  and  tempest.  A  heavy 
body  of  snow  had  fallen,  accompanied  with  rain  and 
sleet.  As  the  thermometer  had  sunk  during  the  night 
some  twenty  degrees,  the  surface  of  the  snow  had  become 
converted  into  a  solid  crust  of  ice.  The  trees,  loaded 
with  the  wintry  burden,  presented,  pendent  from  every 
twig  and  spray,  ten  thousand  transparent  icicles,  glit- 
tering in  the  beams  of  the  orient  sun.  The  horses, 
attached  to  the  sleigh  to  which  we  have  adverted, 
moved  swiftly  and  proudly  along,  as  though  quickened 
and  animated  at  each  advancing  step  by  the  sounds 
issuing  from  the  ceaseless  fracture  of  the  icy  surface, 
that  snapped  and  crackled  under  their  feet.  In  front 
sat  the  stout  driver  that  guided  the  noble  animals  that 
glided  with  such  fleetness  over  the  ground,  and  on  the 
back  seat  were  a  gentleman  and  lady,  sitting  by  the 
side  of  each  other,  demure,  serious  and  silent.  A  pile 
of  trunks  occupied  the  central  part  of  the  sleigh,  which 
showed  that  these  travellers  were  on  a  long  journey. 


224  THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

The  vehicle  passed  on  down  the  dark  gorge,  through  a 
deep  ravine,  and  continued  its  course  onward,  winding 
among  the  hills,  ascending  one  steep  after  another,  till 
at  length  it  reached  one  of  the  highest  points  of  eleva- 
tion in  the  Hassen  Cleaver  Hills,. from  which  our  tra- 
vellers could  look  back  and  see  the  spires,  and  cupolas, 
and  white  painted  buildings  of  the  beautiful  village  of 
F ,  which  they  had  left  at  early  dawn.  This  vil- 
lage, now  seen  in  the  distance,  and  surrounded  by  all 
the  dreariness  and  desolations  of  winter,  did  not  wear 
that  aspect  of  loveliness  and  beauty  it  docs  in  mid- 
summer. 

In  the  fervid  months  of  July  and  August,  the  weary 
traveller,  when  he  reaches  this  sweet,  quiet  spot,  feels 
as  though  he  had  entered  the  happy  valley  of  Abys- 
sinia, where  the  dust,  and  din,  and  turmoil  of  a  noisy 
and  agitated  world  are  shut  out,  and  all  the  sweet, 
silent,  gentle  attractions  of  nature  are  gathered 
around  to  soothe  his  troubled  spirit,  and  shed  calm  and 
heavenly  peace  over  his  mind. 

A  page  taken  from  a  memorandum  made  on  the  spot 
in  the  summer  of  1836,  will  give  the  reader  some  idea 
of  this  picturesque  and  rural  scenery. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  days  of  summer. 
The  sun  is  proudly  marching  through  the  heavens,  in 
full-orbed  splendour.  The  tide  of  brightness,  and  the 
flood  of  fervid,  glowing  beams  which  he  pours  over  the 
earth,  makes  an  impression  upon  all  animated  nature, 
which  one  scarcely  knows  how  to  describe,  tliough  he 
feels  it  in  every  limb  and  muscle,  and  sees  it  in  every 
form  of  organized  being,  from  the  smallest  spire  of 
grass,  to  the  tallest  tree  of  the  forest — from  the  buzzing 


THE    PAWNEE    GROUP.  225 

insect  that  sings  at  his  ear,  to  the  vast  herd  that  seek 
the  shady  shelter  of  the  grove,  or  stand  panting  mid- 
Vi^ay  in  the  brook.  I  too  feel  this  povi^er,  in  the  genial 
glow  imparted  to  my  system.  The  cool  shelter  of  this 
beautiful  tree  under  which  I  sit,  and  the  sweet  and 
varied  landscape  before  me,  make  me  almost  feel  that 
I  am  encompassed  with  the  Elysian  fields. 

"  The  village  is  a  mile  distant,  and  some  two  hundred 
feet  below  this  spot.  The  elevated  knoll  on  which  I 
sit  slopes  down  by  a  gentle  declivity,  to  the  road,  where 
the  traveller  passes  on  to  the  village.  Beyond,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road,  the  land  again  swells  into  a 
broad  hill,  which  the  hand  of  cultivation  has  so  neatly 
dressed,  that  not  a  stump  or  stone  is  visible.  One  ex- 
tended carpet  of  green  meets  the  eye,  presenting  a 
surface  smooth  and  beautiful  as  the  newly-shorn  lawn. 
Beyond  this  hill  the  earth  again  slopes  off,  and  falls 
into  a  valley,  through  which  runs  a  little  stream,  minis- 
tering fertility  to  the  soil,  and  refreshment  to  the  cattle 
that  graze  the  fields  on  either  side  of  it.  Still  more 
remote,  the  land,  by  beautiful  undulations,  again  rises 
and  is  again  depressed,  till  at  length  it  sweeps  off  by  a 
more  precipitous  descent  to  the  bed  of  the  West  Canada 
creek,  which  some  fifteen  miles  above  is  poured  in  wild 
beauty  over  Trenton  Falls.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  creek,  the  land  again  rises  with  precipitous  eleva- 
tion, lifting  itself  upward  in  bold  and  still  bolder 
forms,  till  in  the  distance  it  meets  the  eye  in  the  broad 
outline  of  the  Hassen  Cleaver  Hills,  that,  like  some 
grand  mountain  ridge,  tower  upward  till  they  seem  to 
prop  the  very  heavens.  This  range  sweeps  along  to 
the  south  and  east,  till  it  seems  in  the  distance  blended 
with  another  range,  still  more  remote,  that  rises  beyond 

Ff 


226  THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

the  Mohawk,  which  together  form  a  semicircle  in  a 
broad  and  bold  amphitheatre  of  hills.  Over  this  range 
of  hills  up  to  their  highest  peaks,  as  well  as  through 
the  whole  extent  of  the  intervening  country,  are  seen 
cultivated  fields,  interspersed  with  woodlands, — and 
sprinkled  all  along,  as  far  the  eye  can  extend  to  the 
north  and  south,  corn-fields,  and  orchards,  and  barns, 
and  farm-houses,  and  herds  of  cattle. 

"  The  sun  is  pouring  his  golden  splendour  over  this 
rich  landscape.  Now  and  then  a  passing  cloud  quenches 
the  bright  lustre  of  his  beams,  and  light  and  shade 
alternately  rest  upon  the  smooth,  green  surface  of  the 
hills.  Just  in  my  rear,  far  to  the  left,  starts  up,  like 
another  Tower  of  Babel,  a  smooth,  verdant  knoll,  that 
by  its  vast  elevation  and  singular  formation  seems  to 
constitute  in  the  patliway  of  heaven,  to  the  eye  that 
traces  its  outline,  the  quadrant  of  an  elipse,  at  one  of 
whose  bases  stands  a  beautiful  cluster  of  young  butter- 
nuts, gracefully  grouped  together,  and  extending  at  least 
over  an  acre  of  ground — at  which  point  it  is  said,  that, 
in  a  remarkably  clear  sky,  the  waters  of  the  broad  and 
distant  Ontario  may  be  seen. 

"  Over  this  whole  landscape  universal  quiet  reigns. 
No  sounds  come  upon  the  ear,  save  now  and  then  the 
cheerful  chirp  of  a  bird — the  hum  of  the  passing  bee — 
the  lowing  of  a  cow,  or  the  sighing  of  the  summer 
breeze,  that  gently  creeps  through  the  rich  foliage  that 
spreads  its  grateful  covering  over  my  head. 

"  God  created  these  forms  of  beauty  around  me,  and 
gave  to  this  scene  all  its  loveliness  !  If  what  his  hand 
has  formed  be  so  lovely,  how  lovely  must  He  be,  from 
whom  has  emanated  all  these  traces  of  varied  and  ex- 
quisite beauty.     I  have  a  book  which  courts  my  atten- 


THE    PAWNEE    GROUP.  227 

tion :  it  is  from  the  pen  of  John  Bunyan,  entitled, 
'  Come  and  Welcome  to  Jesus  Christ.^  In  the  face  of 
Jesus  Christ,  where  is  displayed  '  the  knowledge  of  the 
glory  of  God,'  I  see  stronger  lines  of  beauty 'than  in  all 
this  witching  scenery  that  stretches  around  me." 

From  this  imperfect  sketch,  the  reader  will  be  able 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  scenery  that  in  midsummer 
surrounds  the  sweet  village  upon  which  these  travel- 
lers were  looking  back  from  one  of  the  highest  points 
in  the  range  of  the  Hassen  Cleaver  Hills.  The  scene 
now  appeared  totally  different.  All  those  verdant 
beauties,  that  were  spread  out  in  such  sweet  and 
endless  variety  in  the  fervid  months  of  summer,  were 
now  entombed  in  one  broad,  deep  sepulchre  of  snow. 
To  the  spectator  whose  eye  expatiated  over  this  scene 
it  might  have  been  said, 

"  See  on  yonder  heights 
That  fearful  form,  that  thrones  him  on  their  top ; 
His  face  is  turned  upon  the  northern  shore : 
His  misty  head  is  turbaned  with  the  frost — 
His  breath  is  gelid — and  his  hand  is  ice. 
'Tis  Winter !    All  on  which  he  looks  is  dead 
And  beautiless.    His  spell  is  on  the  brooks ; 
Their  murmurings  cease.    His  spell  is  on  the  trees ; 
All  their  stripped  branches  clatter  at  his  breath. 
His  spell  is  on  the  year ;  her  pinched  form 
Shrinks  back,  and  shudders  at  his  magic  touch." 

Though  the  dark  frown  of  winter  was  upon  the  whole 
scene,  one  of  those  travellers  saw  in  that  far-off  village, 
surrounded  as  it  was  at  this  moment  by  every  form  of 
dreary  desolateness,  enough  to  wake  up  deep  and 
thrilling  emotions  in  her  bosom.  It  was  her  own  na- 
tive village.     As  she  turned  at  this  moment  to  look 


228  TUi:.    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

back,  there  was  a  deadly  paleness  upon  her  cheek,  and 
a  tear  glistened  in  her  dark,  lustrous  eye,  as  she  said 
to  her  husband,  who  sat  by  her  side, 

"  I  shall  never  see  those  hills  again ;  nor  those 
sweet  spires,  that  meekly  point  upwards  to  the  hea- 
vens." 

"  In  this  you  may  be  mistaken,  my  dear,"  he  gently 
replied.  "  You  may  come  back  after  awhile,  and  visit 
the  home  of  your  childhood," 

"No,"  said  she,  "I  feel  that  T  shall  not.  I  shall 
probably  quickly  accomplish  my  work ;  and  then,  if  a 
single  Indian  girl  has  been  taught  to  know  and  love 
the  Saviour  through  my  instrumentality,  I  shall  cheer- 
fully lay  me  down  to  repose  beneath  the  shade  of  the 
deep  forest  that  spreads  around  the  everlasting  base 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains." 

"  And  do  you  not  think,"  said  her  husband,  "  that  it 
is  well  for  us  to  feel  that  we  are  strangers  and  pilgrims 
on  the  earth — that  we  have  no  continuing  city  here  1 
Shall  we  not  be  happier  when  we  cherish  such  an 
abiding  impression  I  Shall  we  not  thus  sit  looser  to 
the  world,  and  be  more  certainly  prepared  for  the 
closing  scenes  of  life  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly  I  do,"  she  responded ;  "  and  I  would 
not  have  you  for  a  moment  suppose  that  I  repent  of  the 
step  I  have  taken.  Worlds  would  not  tempt  me  to 
relinquish  the  purpose  of  consecrating  my  life  to  the 
heathen.  But  you  know  the  heart  will  cling  to  the 
scenes  of  its  childhood,  and  that  it  shudders  at  the 
thought  of  being"  torn  for  ever  from  them.  There — 
there,^^  she  continued,  pointing  to  the  spot,  "  in 
yonder  dear  village,  you  know,  I  leave  behind  me 
my  widowed  mother,  whose  heart  is  now  desolate — 


THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 


229 


who  has  no  other  daughter  to  cheer  and  comfort  her  in 
her  loneliness— and  whose  dear  face  I  shall  prohably 
never  again  behold  till  the  resurrection  morn!  But 
though  I  cannot  restrain  my  tears,  yet  being  convinced 
that  I  am  in  the  path  of  duty,  I  can  say  with  Paul, 
'  None  of  these  things  move  me,  neither  count  I  my 
life  dear  unto  myself,  so  that  I  may  be  permitted  to 
testify  the  gospel  of  the  grace  of  God,'  to  the  humble 
and  down-trodden  females  of  the  perishing  Pawnees." 

The  persons  whom  we  have  described  were  Dr.  S — 
and  his  wife,  just  starting  on  their  journey  to  join 
several  other  missionaries,  who  with  them  had  been 
sent  out  by  the  American  Board  as  a  reinforcement  to 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Dunbar,  who  had  already  for  several 
years  been  labouring  among  the  Pawnees. 

In  the  regions  of  the  far  west,  several  hundred  miles 
beyond  the  Mississippi,  extends  a  vast  tract  of  unin- 
habited country,  where  there  is  neither  to  be  seen  the 
log  house  of  the  white  man,  nor  the  wigwam  of  the 
Indian.  It  consists  of  great  grassy  plains,  interspersed 
with  forests,  and  groves,  and  clumps  of  trees, — and 
watered  by  mighty  rivers,  with  numerous  tributary 
streams.  Over  these  fertile  and  verdant  wastes  still 
roam  the  elk,  the  buftalo,  and  the  wild  horse,  in  all 
their  native  freedom.  These  are  the  hunting  grounds 
of  the  tribes  of  the  far  west.*  These  hunting  grounds 
are  visited  among  others  by  the  Pawnees,  a  wild,  un- 
tamed tribe,  who  are  sometimes  engaged  in  hunting 
the  deer  and  buftalo,  and  at  others  in  warlike  and  pre- 
datory expeditions.  This  tribe  is  divided  into  four 
bands— Pawnee  Republicans,  Pawnee  Peeks,  Pawnee 

*  Washington  Irvin?. 


230  THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

Loups,  and  Grand  Pawnees,  amounting-  in  all  to  about 
twelve  thousand  persons. 

On  the  fifth  of  May,  1834,  by  the  direction  of  a  com- 
mittee of  the  American  Board,  the  Rev.  John  Dunbar 
and  Mr.  Samuel  All  is,  Jr.,  left  Ithaca,  (N.  Y.)  on  an 
exploring  tour  among  the  Indian  tribes  near  or  beyond 
the  Rocky  Mountains.  If  found  impracticable  to  pene- 
trate so  far  at  that  season,  they  were  authorized  to  visit 
the  Pawnees  on  the  Platte  river,  and,  if  they  should 
find  a  favourable  opening,  to  commence  a  mission  in 
that  tribe.  Circumstances  were  such,  as  to  lead  them 
to  decide  to  devote  their  labours  to  the  Pawnees.  They 
reached  Council  Bluft's  the  second  of  October,  where  is 
established  by  the  government  of  the  United  States  an 
agency  for  the  Pawnees,  and  a  number  of  other  Indian 
tribes.  As  soon  as  the  Pawnees  had  learned  that  two 
white  men  had  come,  who  were  desirous  to  go  out  and 
live  with  them,  the  first  chief  of  the  Loups  made  appli- 
cation to  the  agent  for  one  of  them  to  go  with  him  and 
live  in  his  village.  The  chiefs  of  the  four  different 
bands  at  length  desired  an  interview  with  the  mission- 
aries, and  toLl  them  that  they  were  glad  they  had  come 
to  instruct  them — that  they  were  inquiring  about  the 
things  of  religion — that  their  minds  were  dark,  and 
they  in  doubt  about  many  things,  and  they  would  be 
pleased  to  receive  information  on  these  points,  if  it 
could  be  imparted. 

After  retiring  and  spending  a  little  time  together, 
in  prayer  and  consultation,  Mr.  Allis  decided  to  go  with 
the  Pawnee  Loups,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dunbar  with  the 
Grand  Pawnees.  These  missionaries  were  treated 
with  great  kindness  by  the  Indians.  They  accompa- 
nied these  sons  of  the  forest  in  all  their  wanderings, 


THE    PAWNEE    GROUP.  231 

in  order  to  learn  their  language,  become  acquainted 
with  their  disposition  and  habits,  and  seize  every  op- 
portunity to  speak  to  them  on  the  momentous  subject  of 
their  immortal  interests.  This  tribe  of  Indians  usually 
go  out  on  their  summer's  Imnt  about  the  first  of  July, 
and  return  the  first  of  September,  to  gather  their  corn. 
They  go  on  the  winter's  hunt  in  October,  and  return  in 
March,  to  plant  and  hoe  their  corn.  They  are  at  their 
villages  about  five  months  in  the  ydar;  and  the  only 
prospect  that  the  missionary  has  of  benefiting  them 
is  to  live  with  them,  and  go  with  them  wherever  they 
go.  On  these  hunting  expeditions  occasions  frequently 
occur  wdien  the  missionary,  who  has  won  his  way  to 
their  confidence,  may  gather  a  large  group  around  him, 
and  hold  for  a  short  time  their  undivided  attention,  while 
he  speaks  upon  the  great  and  awfully  sublime  truths  of 
the  gospel.  And  the  place  where  he  is  permitted  thus 
to  testify  of  Jesus  and  the  resurrection,  is  not  unfre- 
quently  amid  the  boldest  and  grandest  scenes  of  nature, 
and  the  sublimest  demonstrations  of  the  Almighty's 
power.  A  scene  of  calm  tranquillity,  and  yet  of  wild 
and  picturesque  beauty,  is  presented  in  the  vignette 
view  of  this  volume,  which  is  intended  to  represent  a 
missionary  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  Paw- 
nees, to  whom  he  is  speaking  of  Christ  and  salvation. 

One  of  the  misfcionaries,  to  whom  we  have  previously 
adverted,  speaking  of  the  habits  of  this  and  other 
tribes  in  the  far  west,  remarks :  "  It  may  be  necessary 
for  missionaries  to  travel  with  them  for  a  number  of 
years;  but  supposing  it  is,  traders  do  the  same,  and 
endure  more  hardships,  and  are  more  exposed  to  dan- 
gers than  missionaries  will  be.  They  do  it  for  a  little 
of  this  world's  goods,  which  will  soon  perish.     How 


232  THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

important  it  is  that  these  heathen  tribes  have  some 
persons  to  teach  them  the  way  of  life ;  persons  that  are 
willing"  to  live  as  they  live.  They  are  going  on  down 
to  the  chambers  of  death  as  fast  as  time  can  carry 
them,  without  any  to  point  them  to  Jesus  Christ.  Must 
these  heathen  perish,  or  will  Christians,  in  obedience-, 
to  the  divine  command,  labour  for  the  salvation  of  their 
souls!" 

The  same  missionary,  in  another  letter,  remarks: 
"  The  Pawnees  are  an  interesting  tribe  of  Indians,  and 
much  more  friendly  to  the  whites,  and  in  favour  of 
schools,  than  I  anticipated.  I  think  this  a  great  field 
open  for  missionary  labour,  and  trust  it  will  soon 
be  fully  occupied.  We  greatly  need  your  prayers, 
that  we  may  be  guided  aright  in  this  land  of  dark- 
ness. I  write  this  upon  my  knee,  with  about  twenty 
Indians  talking  around  me." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Dunbar,  under  the  date  of  October 
8th,  1835,  wrote :  "  The  Pawnees  have  treated  us  very 
kindly  since  we  have  lived  with  them.  We  feel  our- 
selves perfectly  safe  under  their  protection.  We  have 
made  some  progress  in  the  Pawnee  language.  To  ac- 
quire the  knowledge  of  their  tongue  is  one  main 
object  we  have  in  living  and  wandering  with  them  at 
present.  We  hope  you  v.^ill  soon  see  fit  to  send  more 
labourers  into  this  field." 

It  was  in  response  to  these  appeals  that  several  mis- 
sionaries were  sent  out  to  join  Mr.  Dunbar,  in  1836. 

Two  of  these  were  Dr.  S and  Mrs.  S ,  to  whom 

the  reader  has  already  been  introduced,  as  wending 
their  way  over  the  Hassen  Cleaver  Hills. 

The  preceding  statement  has  been  drawn  up  as  an 
introduction  to  a  sketch  of  the  character  and  life  of 


THE    PAWNEE   GROUP.  333 

Mrs.  S .     Few  of  the  baptized  and  blood-bought 

followers  of  the  Lamb  in  the  present  day,  have  evinced 
a  more  entire  renunciation  of  self,  or  a  more  unreserved 
consecration  of  all  their  powers  to  the  service  and  glory 
of  God,  than  did  this  young  and  interesting  female. 

At  the  very  dawn  of  her  existence,  she  was  given 
back  in  faith  and  prayer  to  that  God,  to  whose  creative 
power  she  was  indebted  for  her  being.  This  was  done 
not  only  in  private,  but  publicly,  and  by  a  sacramental 
act.  The  mother  who  bore  her,  carried  her  to  the  arms 
of  that  Jesus  who  said,  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not."  She  was  then  continu- 
ally made  the  subject  of  prayer.  Those  prayers  went 
up  into  the  ears  of  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth,  and  a  gracious 
answer  was  returned.  While  yet  in  the  morning  of 
her  days,  she  was  led  to  see  the  evil  of  sin,  the  vanity 
of  the  world,  and  the  unspeakable  preciousness  of  Christ. 
She  became  a  decided  Christian.  Religion  took  hold 
of  her  heart  with  a  power  that  controlled  all  her  actions, 
and  led  her  to  consecrate  herself  entirely  to  the  service 
of  her  Saviour.  She  was  now  going,  in  the  freshness 
of  her  young  being,  to  live,  and  labour,  and  die,  in  the 
far  western  wilds,  with  the  hope  of  leading  some  be- 
nighted daughter  of  the  forest  to  the  cross  of  Christ, 
and  the  glory  of  heaven. 

In  the  volume  for  1839,  if  permitted  to  go  on  in  these 
labours,  we  will  furnish  the  reader  with  a  biographical 

sketch  of  Mrs.  S ,  to  which  this  is  designed  to  be 

merely  the  introduction.  We  will  then  endeavour  to 
acquaint  him  with  some  particulars  of  her  early  history: 
how  she  passed  her  childhood ;  how  she  was  first  led  to 
Christ ;  what  induced  her  to  go  on  this  mission ;  what 

G  ST 


234  THE    PAWNEE    GROUP. 

clouds  gathered  around  lier,  and  what  obstacles  started 
up  in  her  way — and  then  we  will  point  to  the  field  of 
her  intended  labours;  her  journey  thither,  and  the  grave, 
in  the  far  west,  where  rests  her  mortal  part,  waiting  for 
that  voice,  at  whose  bidding,  on  the  resurrection  morn, 
all  the  sleeping  dead  shall  come  forth — the  righteous 
to  be  transformed  into  the  glorious  image  of  the  Son  of 
God,  and  the  wicked  to  be  driven  into  everlasting 
banishment. 

Philadelphia. 


235 


THE  SHRINE; 


OR, 


LOCAL   EMOTIONS. 


BY  REV.  A.  BARNES. 


It  is  an  original  principle  of  our  nature,  which  leads 
us  to  look  with  deep  interest  on  any  place  that  has 
been  signalized  by  an  important  event.  No  man  can 
walk  over  a  battle  field  but  with  deep  emotion ;  and 
especially  if  the  battle  which  was  waged  there  had 
any  important  influence  in  settling  the  rights  of  man, 
or  leading  to  the  liberty  which  he  himself  enjoys.  And 
the  meditation  on  such  a  field  will  be  such  as  will  na- 
turally tend  to  deepen  his  attachment  to  liberty,  and  to 
impress  him  with  a  sense  of  its  value ;  or,  if  he  be  a 
pious  man,  inspire  him  with  a  deeper  sense  of  his  ob- 
ligation to  God,  and  of  gratitude  for  his  mercies.  In 
like  manner,  no  man  can  look  but  with  interest  on  the 
place  of  his  own  birth,  or  the  birth-place  of  a  much 
loved  friend.  To  him  there  is  an  interest  about  that 
spot  which  no  other  place  can  possess;  and  a  power 
will  ever  afterwards  go  forth  from  that  place  to  bind 
him  to  his  native  land.  No  parent  can  go  into  the 
room,  where  a  beloved  child  has  expired  but  with  ten- 
der emotion.  The  room,  the  bed,  the  furniture,  the 
articles  in  which  the  beloved  child  felt  an  interest,  have 


236  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

all  acquired  a  species  of  sacredness ;  and  there  is  much 
in  that  room,  and  in  those  associations,  to  calm  the  feel- 
ings and  subdue  the  mind,  and  to  recall  the  emotions 
of  love  and  of  grief  No  Christian,  in  like  manner, 
can  look  but  with  deep  emotion  on  the  place,  the  time, 
the  circumstances,  of  his  conversion  to  God.  There  is 
a  tenderness  in  his  view  in  the  memory  of  the  place, 
and  the  manner,  which  he  would  not  rudely  disturb  or 
destroy ;  there  is  a  sacredness  in  the  recollection  of  the 
hallowed  scene  which  he  loves,  and  which  he  would 
not  fail  to  cherish.  And  it  is  on  this  principle,  also, 
that  we  feel  there  is  a  sacredness  around  the  places 
which  have  been  consecrated  by  the  great  events  of 
our  holy  religion.  The  feelings  of  that  man  are  not  to 
be  envied  who  could  tread,  without  emotion,  the  land 
where  David  dwelt;  or  who  could  contemplate,  un- 
moved, the  very  rocks,  and  fields,  and  streams,  on  whicli 
the  Redeemer  of  the  world  often  gazed.  There  is  no 
Christian  who  could  look  but  with  deep  emotion  on  the 
place  where  the  Saviour  of  mankind  slept,  sweet  in 
death ;  or  whose  mind  would  not  be  tenderly  impress- 
ed, if  he  stood  on  the  place  from  which  he  ascended  to 
God.  Nay,  in  spite  of  all  reasoning,  and  all  dread  of 
superstition,  and  all  resolutions  to  the  contrary,  there 
is  no  man  who  would  not  feel  deep  emotion  at  a  sight 
of  a  portion  of  the  true  cross,  if  it  could  be  recovered ; 
or  in  the  possession  of  an  object  of  slightest  value, 
which  once  constituted  a  part  of  the  raiment  of  the 
Redeemer.  Notwithstanding  all  cold  argumentation 
to  the  contrary,  the  possession,  even  of  an  olive-branch, 
cut  from  the  very  hill  where  the  Saviour  ascended  to 
heaven,  will  make  an  impression  on  the  mind  which  no 
other  branch  would  make ;  and  produce  an  impression 


LOCAL    EMOTIONS.  237 

as  if  there  were  something"  mysteriously  sacred  in  that 
which  grew  on  that  sacred  spot. 

It  thus  occurs,  that  the  world  is  full  of  objects  of  ten- 
der and  sacred  associations.  To  some  of  the  human 
race,  almost  every  object  which  we  see  has  attached  to 
it  some  such  sacred  recollections,  and  is  fitted  now  to 
excite  deep  emotion  in  the  breasts  of  the  living,  or  has 
excited  it  among  those  who  are  dead.  Every  land  has 
many  a  battle-field,  where  have  fallen  many  a  father, 
husband,  or  son ;  and  the  memory  of  that  field  lived 
long,  producing  deep  and  tender  emotion.  Every  place 
which  we  tread  is  a  grave,  and  over  every  spot  of  earth 
has  fallen  many  a  tear ;  and  each  place  has  thus  been 
hallowed  in  the  recollection  of  many  a  weeping  friend.* 
Every  fountain,  or  running  stream,  may  have  been  the 
scene  of  some  tender  occurrence  that  shall  have  been 
recollected  with  deep  interest ;  every  grove  tnay  have 
been  hallowed  as  the  place  where  some  weeping  peni- 
tent has  sought  for  mercy  from  the  great  Being  who 
made  the  world ;  and  every  crag,  and  cliff,  could  they 
disclose  their  own  history,  might  tell  of  some  scene  of 
thrilling  interest,  or  appalling  danger,  fitted  to  awaken 
deep  emotion  in  the  human  heart.  It  was  from  feel- 
ings such  as  these,  doubtless,  that  the  ancients  regard- 
ed the  hills,'and  groves,  and  fountains,  and  valleys,  as 
the  residence  of  tutelary  divinities,  presiding  over  the 
places  rendered  sacred  by  some  tender  or  interesting 


*  It  has  been  ascertained,  by  a  calculation,  that  the  number  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  earth  v.iio  have  lived,  is  equal  to  1283  in  each 
square  rod;  capable  of  hein?  divided  into  twelve  graves;  and  that 
the  entire  surface  of  the  earth  has  been  dug  over  at  least  a  hundred 
times,  to  bury  its  inhabitants,  supposing  that  all  that  have  died  had 
been  equally  distributed. 


240  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

fare  of  man,  and  to  the  advancement  of  true  religion. 
There  are  limits,  within  which  its  exercise  is  salutary 
and  proper.  There  are  bounds,  beyond  which  it  be- 
comes the  handmaid  of  superstition,  and  the  support  of 
error. 

The  design  of  this  principle  of  our  nature  is  obvious. 
It  is  to  impart  strength  to  virtue  and  to  piety.  It  is  to 
give  force  and  vitality  to  abstract  rules  of  morality  and 
virtue,  and  to  bring  in  to  their  aid  what  seems  to  be  an 
independent  power  to  give  them  permanency.  Most 
men  are  less  capable  of  being  influenced  by  abstract 
lessons  of  morality  and  religion,  than  they  are  by  asso- 
ciations like  these ;  most  need  something  that  shall 
remove  from  these  principles  the  coldness  of  abstrac- 
tions, and  shall  give  to  them  the  power  of  reality. 
The  great  mass  of  men  are  influenced,  alike  in  favour 
of  virtue  and  vice,  less  by  their  reason  than  their  feel- 
ings ;  less  by  cold  and  abstract  rules,  than  by  what  ap- 
peals to  their  sympathies  and  their  hearts.  Accordingly, 
there  is  not  a  principle  of  virtue  or  piety  which  may 
not,  and  which  was  not,  designed  to  be  strengthened 
by  some  sacred  and  tender  object  of  association.  There 
is  perhaps  no  man  who  is  not  benefited  by  revisiting 
the  place  of  his  birth ;  by  turning  away  from  the  cares 
and  turmoils,  the  ambition  and  the  dissipating  scenes 
of  life ;  by  ranging  again  over  the  fields  and  by  the 
streams  where  he  spent  his  boyish  days.  Every  object 
which  he  sees  serves  to  recall  him  from  the  scenes  of 
ambition  in  which  he  may  have  been  engaged,  and  im- 
print with  new  power  on  his  heart  the  lessons  which  he 
learned  in  early  years.  There  is  no  young  man  who 
is  not  benefited  by  visiting  a  mother's  grave,  and  by 
looking  upon  the  long,  green  grass  which  waves  over 


LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 


241 


the  place  where  she  sleeps.     It  will  recall  her  lessons 
of  virtue  and  piety ;  it  will  re-impress  her  sentiments 
on  his  heart ;  it  will  teach  him  the  folly  of  a  career 
of  vice  and  dissipation ;   it  will  rebuke  the  spirit  of 
his  life,  and  his  forgetfulness  of  her  lessons  and  her 
example.     The  exquisitely  beautiful  sentiment  of  Dr. 
Johnson,    on   his  visit   to   lona    in   the    Hebrides,    is 
well  known.     "To  abstract  the  mind  from  all  local 
emotion  would  be  impossible,  if  it  were  endeavoured, 
and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  possible.     Whatever 
withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses — whatever 
makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future,  predominate 
over  the  present,  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking 
being-s.     Far  from  me,  and  from  my  friends,  be  such 
frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indifferent  and  un- 
moved over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by 
wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.     That  man  is  little  to  be 
envied,  whose  patriotism  would  not  gain  force  upon  the 
plain  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety  would  not   grow 
warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona  !"*     And  in  like  man- 
ner, who  is  there  that  has  ever  felt  one  genuine  im- 
pulse in  the  cause  of  liberty,  that  will  not  find  his 
patriotism  strengthened  by  a  visit  to  Bunker  Hill  or 
York  Town ;  who,  without  finding  the  great  and  noble 
prmciples  of  self-denying  patriotism  strengthened  in 
his  bosom,  can  look  upon  Mount  Vernon  ?     There  is 
not  a  spot  of  earth — a  grove  or  a  running  stream,  a  hill 
or  a  vale,  a  rock  or  a  fountain,  therefore,  which  God  did 
not  design  should  be  made  tributary  to  virtue  ;   and 
which  he  does  not  intend  shall  be  made  the  means,  in 
some  way,  of  confirming  men  in  the  love  of  country,  of 

*  Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  pp.  321,  322.  Ed.  Phil.  1810 
Hh 


242  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

truth,  of  holiness,  and  of  pure  religion.  Every  object 
*'  hath  a  tongue  ;"*  every  object  speaks  and  pleads ; 
all  the  associations  connected  with  the  remembrance  of 
childhood  and  youth — with  the  lessons  of  father  or  mo- 
ther— with  the  memory  of  a  sister,  brother,  or  child — 
with  the  achievement  of  liberty,  and  with  the  events  of 
religion,  are  designed  to  be  made  tributary  to  virtue, 
and  to  induce  us  to  walk  in  the  path  that  leads  up  to 
God. 

This  principle  is,  in  fact,  made  tributary  to  virtue. 
If  we  could  ascertain  the  entire  influence  which  goes 
forth  from  such  places,  and  such  associations,  on  our 
own  character,  we  should  be  surprised  at  the  amount 
of  that  influence,  and  at  what  we  really  owe  to  it  in 
regard  to  our  own  piety  and  virtue.  The  influence  is 
secret  and  unseen,  but  it  is  constant.  It  is  like  the 
dew  of  night.  "Who  can  write  its  history'?"  Who 
can  compute  its  power  1  It  is  not  the  less  mighty,  be- 
cause it  is  silent  and  unseen.  It  is  not  the  less  real, 
because  it  is  noiseless  and  uncomputed.  And  as  it  is 
constant ;  and  as,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  a  constant 
influence  of  this  kind  is  going  forth  from  the  various 
objects  around  us,  it  is  certainly  not  improper  to  endea- 
vour to  make  it  tributary,  to  a  certain  extent,  to  the 
advancement  of  personal  excellency  of  character  To 
visit  the  home  of  our  childhood — to  re-impress  on  our 
minds  the  feelings  and  sentiments  existing  in  that 
comparatively  innocent  portion  of  our  lives — to  cherish 
with  sacredness  the  memory  of  the  time  when  we  gave 
our  hearts  to  God,  and  the  associations  in  which  it  was 
done — to  revisit  the  places  where  we  have  often  found 

*  Byron. 


LOCAL    EMOTIONS.  243 

sweet  communion  with  God,  the  grove,  the  sanctuary, 
or  the  retired  closet — to  visit  the  room  where  a  beloved 
parent  or  child  left  the  world — and  to  linger  around  the 
spot  where  our  pious  friends  sleep  in  the  hope  of  a 
blessed  resurrection, — to  do  all  this,  for  the  purposes 
of  deepening  our  sentiments  of  piety,  and  making  the 
heart  better,  is  a  prompting  of  nature,  and  is  not  for- 
bidden by  revelation.  And  in  like  manner,  did  we  live 
in  the  land  where  the  prophets  and  the  Redeemer  lived 
— could  we  retrace  the  real  scenes  which  have  been 
made  sacred  by  the  events  of  their  lives,  and  hallowed 
as  the  place  of  their  burial, — nothing  would  render  it 
improper  to  seek  to  strengthen  our  piety  by  such  hal- 
lowed associations. 

But  it  is  evident,  that  no  principle  of  our  nature  is 
more  susceptible  of  abuse  than  this ;  and  that  nothing 
has  been  more  perverted  than  this  to  purposes  of  super- 
stition. It  is  one  of  those  powerful  principles,  against 
the  exercise  of  which,  in  any  form,  it  is  difficult  to 
reason,  which  may  be  seized  upon  by  superstition,  and 
perverted  to  most  unhallowed  purposes.  And  it  is  in 
this  form  that  we  see  it  most  prevalent  in  the  world. 
The  feeling  which  prompts  the  Musselman  to  visit  the 
Caaba  at  Mecca,  is  of  this  nature ;  and  the  feeling 
which  prompts  the  Pagan  to  dwell  near  the  shrine  of 
his  god,  is  of  the  same  nature  ;  and  such  too,  to  a  great 
extent,  is  the  feeling  which  prompts  the  Jew  to  visit 
the  city  where  David  dwelt ;  and  the  Christian  to  make 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  his  Redeemer.  It  is 
well  known  that  nothing  has  exerted  a  more  decided 
influence  in  sustaining  the  power  of  the  Papacy  than 
this ;  and  that  that  vast  system  owes  more  to  this  per- 
verted and  abused  principle,  than  perhaps  to  any  other 


244  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

in  our  nature.  It  has  sought  to  throw  the  charm  of  the 
sacred  association  around  every  place  where  tradition 
has  recorded  that  the  Saviour  was ;  and  has  sought  to 
aid  and  strengthen  itself  by  deriving  support  from  the 
power  which  might  be  made  to  go  forth  from  the  place 
of  his  birth,  his  early  life,  his  miracles,  his  burial. 
Temples  there  have  received  the  contributions  and  rich 
gifts  of  nations  and  princes ;  and  the  feigned  or  real 
memorials  of  the  life  and  death  of  the  Redeemer,  have 
been  made  subservient  to  the  most  mighty  form  of  su- 
perstition which  has  ever  held  dominion  over  the  mind 
of  man.  It  was  this  power  which  once  poured  the  na- 
tions of  Europe  on  the  plains  of  Asia,  to  rescue  the 
tomb  of  the  Redeemer  from  the  grasp  of  infidels ;  and 
it  is  this  which  has  led  to  the  traffic  in  the  relics  of  the 
dead,  and  to  the  sacred  regard  which  has  been  shown 
for  the  thousands  of  fragments  which  have  been  pro- 
claimed to  be  parts  of  the  true  cross,  and  to  that  which 
has  been  consecrated  and  cherished  as  a  portion  of  the 
blood  of  the  Saviour,  For  ages  the  traffic  in  relics, 
and  the  power  of  their  creation,  discovery,  or  consecra- 
tion to  an  unlimited  extent,  exerted  a  most  mighty 
power  on  the  minds  of  the  whole  Christian  world;  and 
was  the  source  of  the  immense  wealth  which  flowed 
into  the  treasuries  of  this  mighty  superstition.  And  it 
is  this  feeling  which  has  led  to  the  consecration  still 
of  places  and  objects  there,  as  peculiarly  sacred  and 
holy.  The  devotion  of  children  to  the  Virgin,  an  in- 
stance of  which  is  presented  in  our  beautiful  engraving, 
is  a  specimen  of  this  kind — an  exhibition  of  superstition 
as  unmingled  and  as  unauthorized  by  the  Scriptures, 
as  any  of  the  acts  of  heathen  worship  by  which  a  child 
is  devoted  to  the  service  of  an  idol  god — and  doubtless 


LOCAL    EMOTIONS.  245 

borrowed  from  such  acts  of  consecration  among  the 
heathen. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  while  God  has  laid  the  founda- 
tion for  the  exercise  of  this  principle  of  sacred  associ- 
ation, and  designs  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  princi- 
ples of  virtue  and  piety  should  be  strengthened  by  it, 
he  has  taken  care  that  all  direct  encouragement  to  it, 
as  it  is  perverted  by  the  Papist,  has  been  by  his  provi- 
dence removed.  One  would  have  supposed  that  there 
would  have  been  some  portrait  of  the  Redeemer  pre- 
served among  his  followers,  which  in  future  times  could 
be  regarded  as  a  correct  representation  of  his  person. 
But  it  is  now  clear  that  no  such  likeness  ever  existed. 
It  was  to  have  been  supposed  that  the  wood  of  the  cross- 
would  be  preserved  by  his  devoted  friends.  But  there 
is  not  the  slightest  proof  that  a  single  portion  of  that 
"accursed  tree"  has  been  preserved  on  earth.  And 
yet,  while  no  such  likeness  of  the  Saviour  exists; 
while  no  portion  of  the  cross  remains ;  while  it  is  im- 
possible to  identify  most  of  the  places  where  occurred 
the  great  events  of  man's  redemption ;  and  while  all, 
or  nearly  all  the  relics  among  the  Papists  are  imposi- 
tions and  forgeries,  it  is  still  true  that  the  Papacy  owes 
more  to  this  principle  of  sacred  association  than  all 
other  causes  combined.  It  is  not  sustained  by  the  Bible, 
for  the  friend  of  that  system  seldom  appeals  to  the  Bible ; 
it  is  not  sustained  by  argument ;  but  it  owes  its  most 
deeply  felt  influence  on  the  hearts  of  men  to  the  fancied 
sacredness  of  names,  and  times,  and  places,  and  things; 
of  robes,  and  altars,  and  vestments,  and  bones ; — and 
seeks  to  promote  its  cause  by  filling  the  world  with  ob- 
jects of  sacredness — as  Paganism  has  been  perpetuated 
by  filling  every  grove  with  temples  and  altars. 


246  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

It  is  possible,  also,  that  this  principle  may  be  abused 
by  Protestants ;  and  it  is  not  unwise  to  express  a  cau- 
tion on  this  subject,  that  the  heart  may  be  on  its  guard. 
When  the  mother,  with  immoderate  grief  and  with 
insubmissive  spirit,  lingers  near  the  pale  remains  of  a 
much-loved  child,  and  the  memory  of  the  child  steals 
away  the  thoughts  from  heaven ;  when  the  wife 
mourns  with  insubmissive  sorrow  over  the  husband  of 
her  youth ;  when  we  think  more  of  the  cold  clay  that 
we  commit  to  the  dust  than  of  the  immortal  spirit  that 
has  gone  to  eternity,  this  principle  is  exerting  an  un- 
happy and  a  blasting  influence.  When  attachment  to 
places,  to  scenes  consecrated  in  our  memory,  calls  us 
away  from  duty,  and  such  feelings  of  superstition  be- 
come the  substitute  for  piety,  we  err,  and  the  principle 
is  perverted  in  the  heart.  The  memory  of  the  home  of 
our  youth  should  excite  us  to  gratitude,  and  to  deepen 
the  pious  principles  which  we  learned  there ;  we  should 
tread  the  field  where  the  battles  of  liberty  have  been 
fought  only  to  deepen  our  attachment  to  the  principles 
which  were  defended  there ;  we  should  cherish  a  ten- 
der regard  for  the  places  which  have  been  endeared  to 
us  as  places  where  we  have  felt  the  gushing  tides  of 
friendship  or  affection  go  through  the  heart,  or  where 
we  have  enjoyed  fellowship  with  God,  only  to  deepen 
the  feelings  of  virtuous  love  to  our  kindred  and  to 
our  God.  When  they  cease  to  produce  this  efiect,  we 
err.  When  they  cease  to  raise  our  thoughts  higher 
toward  heaven,  and  when  we  delight  in  the  association 
rather  than  in  God,  it  is  abused  to  purposes  of  super- 
stition, and  we  are  in  danger. 

And  it  may  not  be  improper  to  remember,  that  all 
the  places  on  earth  which  we  now  regard  as  so  sacred 


LOCAL    EMOTIONS.  347 

to  US,  will  soon  be  destroyed.  The  grave  where  the 
child  sleeps,  and  which  we  decorate  with  flowers,  will 
soon  give  up  its  dead.  The  places  which  are  dear  to 
us  in  the  recollection,  will  soon  be  changed.  The  fires 
that  shall  consume  the  world  shall  pass  over  them  all. 
The  house — the  family  mansion  where  we  sported  in 
childhood,  will  decay.  Every  relic  of  a  beloved  friend ; 
every  dear  memorial;  every  sacred  remembrance  of 
those  whom  we  loved,  and  who  loved  us,  will  be  gone. 
All  that  piety,  patriotism,  or  superstition  has  conse- 
crated ;  all  that  has  been  employed  to  deepen  the  sen- 
timents of  virtue,  or  to  maintain  delusion  over  the 
human  mind ;  all  the  monuments  that  have  been  reared 
to  commemorate  the  triumphs  of  liberty,  or  to  perpe- 
tuate the  endearments  of  affection,  will  all  soon  be 
gone. 

Our  deepest,  tenderest  interest,  is  in  heaven.  There 
all  is  sacred.  That  God  may  make  use  of  this  principle 
of  sacred  association  there,  is  more  than  probable ;  and 
all  heaven  is  now  filled,  and  will  be  filled  for  ever,  with 
that  which  is  adapted  to  excite  our  gratitude,  and  ex- 
pand our  love.  There  is  the  Redeemer — and  all  heaven 
is  sacred  by  his  presence.  There  are  many  of  those 
whom  we  best  love,  those  whom  we  often  fondly  clasped 
to  our  bosom  on  earth,  and  over  whose  departure  we  have 
so  often  mourned.  And  if  we  cherish  so  sacredly  the 
remembrance  of  the  places  where  they  lived,  and  where 
their  cold  remains  now  sleep  in  dust,  how  much  more 
tenderly  should  we  dwell  on  the  sacred  scenes  where 
tliey  now  live,  and  think  of  the  green  fields  of  Paradise, 
and  the  waters  of  life  where  they  now  dwell.  How 
we  should  assuage  our  sorrow  for  their  departure,  and 
deepen  our  attachment  for  them  still,  by  desiring  to 


248  LOCAL    EMOTIONS. 

range  with  them  over  those  fields,  and  to  repose  with 
them  beside  the  river  of  salvation.  And  if  our  feelings 
are  so  tender  at  the  thought  of  the  place  where  the  Sa- 
viour died,  and  where  he  slept  in  the  tomb,  how  elevated, 
how  sacred  should  be  our  attachment  to  that  heaven 
where  he  now  dwells ;  how  much  more  ardently  should 
we  desire  to  bow  before  him  amidst  the  splendours  of 
heaven,  than  even  to  weep  where  he  wept  in  Gethse- 
mane,  or  to  kneel  at  his  sepulchre. 

Philadelphia. 


m 


249 


THE  MORNING  WALK. 

BY  MISS  CATHARINE  H.  WATERMAN. 

Go  forth,  young  beauty,  go; 

Thy  soft  and  gentle  eye 
Yearns  to  be  where  the  waters  flow, 

Beneath  the  summer  sky. 

Thy  fluttering  heart  is  stirr'd 

Within  its  prison'd  cell ; 
Uncage,  dark  wall,  uncage  the  bird 

'Mid  brighter  things  to  dwell; 

Where  springs  the  budding  flower 
To  greet  the  sun's  young  beam. 

Where  woodlarks  warble  in  their  bower, 
Where  leapri  the  laughing  stream. 

Where  glad  sounds  from  the  grove 

In  matin  hymns  arise, 
Let  forth  this  heart  its  hoarded  love 

To  offer  to  the  skies. 

The  bright  and  blushing  rose, 

Is  bathed  in  early  dew. 
Freely  its  budding  leaves  unclose 

To  hail  the  morning  blue. 
1  i 


250  THE    MORNING    WALK. 

God,  from  his  mighty  seat, 
Pours  forth  a  flood  of  light — 

Bathes  the  glad  earth  beneath  our  feet, 
In  all  its  radiance  bright. 

He  sends  upon  the  breeze 
The  murmurs  of  his  voice ; 

It  stills  the  tempests  of  the  seas, 
It  makes  the  fields  rejoice. 

Upon  the  trusting  soul, 

'Mid  all  its  wo  and  strife. 
The  oceans  of  his  mercies  roll 

With  pure,  eternal  life. 

As  rainbows  in  the  cloud 
'Mid  darkest  storms  appear. 

So,  through  the  sorrows  that  enshroud. 
Our  God  is  always  near. 

Go  forth,  young  beauty,  free ; 

Thy  breast  hath  known  no  care ! 
Go  forth — the  stream  is  calling  thee 

To  join  in  praise  and  prayer. 

Philadelphia. 


251 


BAPTISM    FOR    THE    DEAD, 

IN  CHINA ; 


OR, 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  TOMBS  OF  MORRISON  AND  MILNE, 
TO  THE  SCHOOLS  OF  THE  PROPHETS. 

BY  REV.  ROBERT  PHILIP. 

Esteemed  Young  Friends, 

It  is  not  by  accident,  nor  by  human  concert,  that 
there  should  thus  cross  your  path,  just  as  you  are  going 
to  "  serve  at  the  altar,''''  challengers  for  China  and  the 
East,  who  interpose  a  flaming  sword  in  your  way,  until 
you  judge  righteous  •  judgment  between  the  claims  of 
home  and  foreign  service.  "  This  is  the  Lord's  doing f* 
and,  therefore,  it  ought  to  be  both  marvellous  and  pro- 
vidential in  your  eyes :  especially,  as  the  altar  at  which 
you  are  about  to  consecrate  yourselves  is,  itself,  conse- 
crated to  the  service  of  the  world  at  large,  and  destined 
to  enlighten  all  the  dark  places  of  the  earth. 

Not  thus  were  Latimer  and  Knox,  Watts  and  Dod- 
dridge, arrested  and  adjured,  by  loud  voices  from  the 
living  and  the  dead,  when  they  began  to  ponder  their 
ordination  vows,  and  compare  the  claims  of  destitute 
churches.  A  destitute  world  was  not  thus  forced  upon 
their  .attention,  whilst  they  were  judging  of  the  path  of 


252  BAPTISM    FOR    THE    DEAD, 

duty.  Their  prayerful  inquiry,  "  Lord,  what  wouldst 
thou  have  me  to  dol"  if  it  glanced  at  all  beyond  the  land 
of  their  fathers,  could  have  no  reference  to  "  the  land 
of  Sinim^''^  or  to  the  shores  of  Ojthir.  No  star  had 
arisen  in  the  East  then,  to  reveal  its  darkness,  or  to 
guide  wise  men  to  its  help.  The  Orient  was  almost 
unknown,  and  altogether  unpitied  by  Protestantism. 
But  now, 

"  The  world  is  all  before  you. 
Where  to  choose." 

Neither  the  Reformers  nor  the  Puritans  had  any 
choice,  but  amongst  the  British  vineyards.  Tliey  were 
"  shut  up"  to  home,  because  shut  out  from  all  the  world 
besides,  except  as  exiles. 

This  insulated  position  must,  of  course,  have  greatly 
simplified  both  their  deliberations  and  prayers,  whilst 
searching  for  the  path  of  duty.  All  the  lamps  of  Pro- 
vidence shone  tlien  upon 

"  A  little  spot  enclosed  by  grace 
Out  of  the  world's  vast  wilderness." 

You  cannot  ascertain  the  path  of  duty  so  soon  or  easily 
now.  It  is  both  more  wide  and  more  winding  than  in 
the  days  of  old ;  and  must  be  examined  under  all  the 
new  lights  which  Providence  has  been  kindling  and 
accumulating  around  the  church. 

Do  you  regret  this  ]  Would  you  prefer  a  state  of 
things  at  home  or  abroad,  in  which  you  could  lay  your 
hand  on  the  altar,  and  swear  ministerial  allegiance  to 
Christ,  without  one  missionary  feeling  or  recollection  1 
Heaven  would  not  register  such  vows,  now  that  the 
whole  earth  is  crying  out  for  help !     Tlie  groans  of 


IN   CHINA.  253 

creation  would  prevent  your  vows  from  becoming  a 
memorial  before  God,  if  they  breathed  no  sympathy 
with  the  bondage  of  creation.  Take  care  what  you 
vow,  whilst  voices  from  all  nations  are  thus  ascending 
to  the  throne  of  God,  and  thundering  around  the  church  I 
The  cry,  ^'■Come  over  and  help  us,''^  is  gone  forth  upon 
the  four  winds  of  heaven,  and  it  cannot  be  stopped  nor 
outspoken  by  any  claim  or  crisis  of  home  affairs.  All 
the  interests  of  the  church  are  now  at  stake,  upon  the 
evangelization  of  the  world.  She  must  go  back  and  go 
down  in  all  her  influence,  if  she  do  not  go  "  into  all 
nations,"  and  preach  the  gospel.  She  must  act  out 
her  commission  now,  or  vacate  her  claims:  for  the 
compulsory  principle  dare  not,  and  the  voluntary  prin- 
ciple will  not,  sustain  her,  under  any  for  jn,  apart  from 
action  and  enterprise.  She  must  set  herself  to  "  save 
others,"  if  she  would  save  herself. 

You  have  not  "  fallen  on  evil  times,"  (whatever 
church  you  belong  to,)  because  you  cannot  take 
your  place  at  the  altar  so  easily  as  your  fathers  did. 
The  times  are,  indeed,  past,  when  it  was  enough,  in 
order  to  prove  a  call  to  the  work  of  the  ministry,  to  be 
able  and  willing  to  preach  the  gospel  any  where  at 
home.  That  was  sufficient  proof  of  being  "  called  of 
God  as  was  Aaron,''''  whilst  God  had  not  thrown  open 
the  world  to  the  church :  but  it  is  not  enough,  now  that 
great  and  effectual  doors  are  opened  in  all  nations,  and 
outstretched  hands  and  streaming  eyes  are  entreating 
help.  This  is  as  much  and  as  certainly  the  voice  of 
Providence,  as  any  opening  in,  or  invitations  from,  the 
American  churches.  It  is,  therefore,  not  Providence 
at  large,  but  a  part  or  the  shadow  of  it,  that  you  are 
watching,  if  you  are  weighing  only  calls  and  prospects 


254  BAPTISM    FOR    THE    DEAD, 

at  home.  There  is,  indeed,  much  providence  in  them. 
Yea,  it  may  be  your  imperative  duty  to  stay  at  home, 
just  because  so  many  are  wanted  to  go  abroad.  So  far 
as  you  are  individually  concerned,  there  may  be  nothing 
personally  providential  in  all  the  aspects  or  appeals  of 
the  heathen  world.  They  cannot  regard  all  the  sons 
of  the  prophets ;  and,  therefore,  they  may  have  no 
direct  bearings  upon  you.  They  do  bear,  however, 
directly  upon  some,  yea,  upon  many  ;  and  you  may  be 
one  of  the  "  chosen  vessels"  whose  duty  it  is  to  bear 
the  name  of  Christ  "  far  hence  among  the  Gentiles." 
It  is,  therefore,  at  your  peril  to  go  up  to  the  altar  as  a 
minister,  until  you  have  fairly  and  fully  met  the  ques- 
tion. What  is  my  duty  in  this  day  of  missions  ]  You 
often  and  honestly  say  to  God,  when  you  think  of  going 
to  his  altar  to  take  his  vows  upon  you,  "  If  thy  pre- 
sence go  not  with  me,  carry  me  not  up^  You  cannot 
bear  the  awful  idea  of  running  unsent,  or  of  studying 
unaided,  or  of  labouring  unblessed  by  God.  No  won- 
der !  You  will  have  to  review  through  all  eternity 
your  miinisterial  choice  and  career.  Judge  therefore 
now,  whether  the  Divine  Presence  is  likely  to  "  go  with" 
you  at  home,  whilst  the  Divine  command  is  calling  for 
so  many  to  go  abroad  ? 

Again  I  say,  it  may  not  be  your  duty  to  quit  your 
native  shores.  It  is,  however,  your  immediate  duty  to 
look  this  question  fully  in  the  face.  It  will  force  itself 
upon  you  before  you  die ;  and  when  you  are  dying,  it 
will  flash  out  upon  your  spirit,  as  the  forerunner  of  all 
the  audits  of  your  stewardship.  At  that  solemn  mo- 
ment, next  to  the  humble  consciousness  of  being  "  in 
Christ,"  nothing  will  be  more  soothing  than  the  con- 
viction of  having  been  in  your  piroper  place ;  or  at  least, 


IN    CHINA.  255 

of  having  done  all  in  your  power  to  ascertain  the  will 
of  God,  as  to  your  sphere. 

Have  yoM,  then,  done  so?  Will  you  do  so  now, 
"  without  partiality,  and  without  hypocrisy  1"  Any  one 
may  skirt  the  confines  of  Omniscience,  or  bear  the 
question  within  the  outer  "  rings"  of  its  heart-searching 
light,  without  ascertaining  either  the  will  of  God,  or 
the  real  bias  of  his  own  will.  This  is  but  compliment- 
ing Omniscience ;  not  consulting  it.  You  cannot  be 
impartial  or  sincere,  unless  you  penetrate  to  the  very 
farthest  and  brightest  point,  at  which  the  "  Light  full 
OF  glory"  is  accessible.  Place  yourself  in  the  full 
blaze  of  Divine  scrutiny,  if  you  would  be  successful  or 
honest.  There,-;— lay  open  your  whole  soul,  and  the 
whole  case  of  the  heathen  world  ;  and  keep  both  open, 
until  you  can  appeal  to  Him  who  knoweth  all  things, 
that  you  have  no  will  of  your  own.  "  Dwell  in"  this 
"  secret  place  of  the  Most  High,''''  until  you  can  come 
out  of  it  in  a  spirit  which  could  meekly  go  before  the 
universe,  or  up  to  the  eternal  throne,  to  avow  its  mo- 
tives. 

Are  you  afraid  of  this  process  1  Do  you  suspect  that 
it  would  overturn  the  anticipated  fabric  of  your  minis- 
terial happiness]  Is  there  any  place  or  person,  for 
whose  sake  you  shrink  from  coming  to  the  light  thus 
fully  ?  "  If  your  heart  condemn  you,  God  is  greater 
than  your  heart,  and  knoweth  all  things."  Besides,  he 
disposeth  all  things,  as  well  as  knoweth  them :  and, 
therefore,  whatever  you  are  unwilling  to  give  up,  for 
his  service,  he  can  take  away.  Do  not,  then,  peril 
your  fondest  wishes,  by  consulting  them  first  or 
chiefly. 

Perhaps  you  are  already  so  placed  and  pledged,  that 


256        BAPTISM  FOR  THE  DEAD, 

it  seems  too  late  now  to  reverse  your  choice,  and  thus 
useless  to  review  it  in  the  orb  of  Omniscience.  It 
cannot,  you  think,  be  honourably  altered ;  and,  there- 
fore, it  should  not  be  unsettled.  You  did  not  mean  ill 
when  you  made  it,  and  as  it  is  not  bad  in  itself,  you 
hope  it  may  turn  out  well  in  the  end. 

This  is  a  delicate  subject :  but  still,  it  is  not  so  diffi- 
cult as  it  seems.  Engagements  are,  indeed,  solemn 
things,  and  should  be  held  sacred.  To  revise  them  is 
not,  however,  to  violate  them.  In  this  case,  it  may 
confirm  them :  for  it  is  not  yet  certain  that  you  are 
called  or  qualified  to  go  abroad.  Or  if  you  strongly 
suspect  that  your  path  of  duty  would  have  lain  there, 
had  not  these  engagements  shut  you  ^  out  from  it,  why 
should  not  the  reasons  of  this  suspicion,  if  fully  gone 
into,  weigh  as  much  with  others  as  with  yourself]  If 
there  be  reasons  which  would  alter  your  choice,  were 
you  free  to  yield  to  them,  is  it  not  just  as  likely  that 
they  would  sway  another]  At  all  events,  it  is  your 
duty  to  submit  them  to  every  one  concerned  in  your 
movements.  Hush  not  up,  hurry  not  over,  a  question, 
which,  if  not  honestly  dealt  with  now,  may  embarrass, 
if  not  embitter,  your  ministerial  life  through  all 
stages. 

If,  however,  you  be  quite  free  from  all  pledges  to 
any  place  or  person ;  and  thus  at  full  liberty  to  weigh, 
in  the  balance  of  the  sanctuary,  the  comparative  claims 
of  China  and  the  churches,  I  congratulate  you,  even  if 
you  have  no  leaning  towards  foreign  service  yet.  I  do 
not  appeal  to  you,  assuming  that  you  have  either  a  mis- 
sionary spirit  or  bias  already.  If,  indeed,  you  have,  so 
much  the  better :  but  still,  all  that  I  want  is,  to  obtain 
from  you  a  fair  hearing  to  foreign  claims.     Let  them 


IN    CHINA.  257 

make  their  own  impression,  and  produce  their  legiti- 
mate effect  upon  your  spirit,  as  it  is.  Real  missionary 
spirit  is  the  fruit  of  missionary  study.  A  sudden  flash 
of  zeal,  or  flow  of  sympathy,  for  the  heathen,  is  no  test 
of  call  or  qualification  to  teach  them,  now  that  our  so- 
cieties know  what  there  is  to  do  and  endure  abroad. 
Mind  is  wanted,  as  well  as  emotion :  physical  strength, 
as  well  as  devotional  feeling.  And  in  regard  to  China 
and  the  East,  the  order  of  mind  most  wanted  there,  is 
not  to  be  called  forth  by  mere  spirit-stirring  appeals, 
however  holy  or  heroic.  Sober  facts  and  solid  argu- 
ments, can  alone  draw  out  the  kind  of  men  suited  to 
these  spheres.  The  Chinese  are  not  a  barbarous  peo- 
ple, except  so  far  as  Europeans  and  Americans  brutal- 
ize them  by  opium.  Even  in  India,  it  is  the  shrewdness 
and  sensuality,  more  than  the  sanguinary  horrors,  of 
Hindooism  and  Budhism,  that  are  to  be  grappled  with 
now.  Suttees  are  vanishing ;  but  subtleties  are  in- 
creasing in  number  and  ingenuity.  Idols  are  at  a  dis- 
count ;  but  scepticism  bears  a  high  premium.  Educa- 
tion is  popular ;  but  it  is  prized  only  for  selfish  reasons. 
Men  of  mere  feeling,  however  ardent,  are  not  adapted 
to  this  state  of  things.  Any  man  can  weep  at  a  Pujah, 
or  thrill  with  horror  at  a  funeral  pile,  or  hang  his  harp 
upon  the  willows  of  the  Ganges  and  the  Bhurampooter, 
whilst  their  waters  and  alligators  are  glutted  with  sui- 
cidal sacrifices,  and  their  eagles  and  vultures  with  in- 
fant victims :  but  he  must  be  a  reasoning,  a  resolute,  a 
prudent,  as  w^ell  as  a  holy  man,  who  can  gauge  the 
springs  of  these  enormities,  and  grapple  with  the  mo- 
tives of  these  infatuations.  So  also  in  China :  there  is 
neither  such  craft  or  cruelty,  such  pomp  or  sensuality, 
in  their  idolatry  itself,  as  to  stir  up  the  spirit  to  indig- 

Kk 


258  BAPTISM   FOR   THE   DEAD, 

nation  or  horror.  There  is  enough  to  wind  up  a  great 
and  good  spirit  to  all  the  heights  of  solemn  sympathy 
and  patient  enterprise ;  but  nothing  to  enlist  sentiment, 
or  to  enliven  curiosity.  Countless  numbers,  and  cold 
delusions,  and  universal  self-conceit,  and  heartless  for- 
mality, make  up  "the  image  and  superscription"  of 
China :  and,  therefore,  his  eye  must  be  far-reaching  and 
keenly  scrutinizing,  as  v^^ell  as  "  single,"  who  can  read 
the  national  character,  so  as  to  discover  its  vulnerable 
points,  and  devise  lines  of  practical  operation  for  its 
improvement. 

The  man  also  who  sees  no  glory  in  the  power  of  the 
press  to  move  China;  or  no  sublime  efficiency  in  the 
calm  and  dew-like  descent  of  Bibles  and  Tracts  on 
"  the  land  of  Sinim ;"  or  no  moral  grandeur  in  direct- 
ing and  gratifying  the  national  taste  for  reading,  is 
not  the  man  for  China.  Yea,  if  his  spirit  cannot  be 
stirred  in  all  its  depths,  and  fixed  at  all  its  heights,  by 
the  prospect  of  watching  the  mighty  chaos  of  the  Chi- 
nese mind,  just  in  order  to  fathom  its  everlasting  chan- 
nels, and  to  discover  its  ground  stream,  that  thus  he 
may  open  a  passage  for  future  missionaries,  and  pave 
the  way  for  the  moving  of  the  Spirit  of  God  upon  the 
face  of  the  dark  waters, — he  is  not  the  man  for  China. 
Yea,  unless  he  can  discern  unspeakable  glory  in  the 
foundation-stone  of  the  spiritual  temple,  which  Morri- 
son and  Milne,  as  "  wise  master  builders,"  laid ;  and 
thus  can  shout  "grace,  grace  unto  it,"  as  the  sure 
pledge  and  prelude  of  the  top-stone  being  brought  forth 
with  the  shoutings  of  the  universe, — he  is  not  the  man 
for  China.  He  must  too  be  able  and  willing  to  work 
under  ground  there,  who  would  work  well.  Not  that 
he  will  be  unseen  or  unnoticed.     Both  the  church  and 


<3fc 


IN   CHINA.  259 

world  will  have  their  eyes  upon  him :  the  former  in 
admiration  and  hope ;  the  latter  in  curiosity  and  sur- 
prise. No  name  will  be  more  waited  for  or  welcomed 
than  his,  at  the  boards  of  missions  and  on  the  platforms 
of  meeting's,  when  glad  news  come  from  far  countries. 
Labourers  in  China,  will  soon  be  the  great  land-marks 
of  the  Bible  Societies  of  both  the  old  and  the  new 
world.  And  on  no  spot,  more  especially,  than  on  that 
where  Bible-missionaries  are  laying  the  foundation  of 
Christian  churches,  will  angels  watch  or  Providence 
smile.  He  is  not  "  a  wise  master  builder,"  whom  this 
cannot  both  inspire  and  satisfy.  The  work  is  under 
ground,  but  its  reward  is  on  high ;  and  all  that  is  now 
doing  above  ground  by  others,  in  other  places,  will  be 
improved  by  it,  and  identified  with  it,  for  ever. 

Dr.  Morrison  understood  this ;  and  it  sustained  him 
under  all  the  Herculean  labour  of  translation  and  com- 
pilation :  under  all  the  solitude  and  sorrow  occasioned 
by  bereavements :  under  all  the  annoying  restrictions 
of  a  jealous  government,  and  a  monopolizing*  factory: 
and,  even,  under  all  the  mortifications  which  arose, 
when  some  of  his  favourite  plans  were  thwarted  or  ill 
sustained.  Yea,  he  so  understood  both  his  work  and 
his  reward,  that  he  returned  to  pursue  them,  after  see- 
ing that  the  British  churches  had  no  sympathy  with 
him,  except  as  the  translator  of  the  Scriptures  into  the 
Chinese.  Whatever  else  he  had  lived  and  laboured 
for  in  China,  they  would  hardly  look  at. 

He  came  to  them  with  "  the  burden  of  China''* 
pressing  upon  his  spirit  and  absorbing  all  his  thoughts ; 
and  thus  reckoned  that  he  had  only  to  mention  its 
countless  millions  and  his  own  loneliness,  in  order  to 
bring  all  the  churches  to  the  help  of  the  Lord  against 


260  BAPTISM   FOR   THE   DEAD, 

the  mighty :  but  no  man  appreciated  or  understood  his 
solemn  appeal,  in  its  intended  sense.  It  was  inter- 
preted as  a  mere  call  for  a  College  !  Even  as  that  it 
was  all  but  confounded  with  certain  Indian  specula- 
tions, by  the  generality.  He  saw  all  this,  and  keenly 
felt  it  all :  but  it  never  unsettled  his  purpose.  It  dim- 
med his  eye,  and  made  him  "  dumb  with  silence ;"  but 
it  did  not  alienate  his  heart  from  China  or  Britain. 

You  will  now  ask,  how  all  this  bears  upon  my  argu- 
ment J  Thus: — all  this  died  with  Dr.  Morrison !  It 
cannot  happen  again.  The  danger  is  on  the  other  side 
now.  Another  Morrison  would  be  almost  idolized.  See 
how  public  hope  and  sympathy  hang  upon  his  son  !  He 
is  understood,  and  appreciated,  and  responded  to,  at 
once  and  universally.  Could  Mr.  Morrison  only  say, 
that  China  Proper  was  "  open,"  he  might  command  the 
churches,  and  pick  the  colleges  of  both  Britain  and 
America. 

I  know  what  I  am  about  in  thus  dealing  with  facts : 
see  to  it — that  you  deal  as  honestly  with  them.  Would, 
that  I  could  act  upon  them,  as  freely  as  I  argue  from 
them !  But,  alas !  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  acting : 
I  can  do  nothing  but  write.  You,  however,  can  do 
more. 

In  all  tliis,  I  have  not  forgotten  the  question,  "Is 
China  open  to  the  gospel  ]"  nor  the  command,  "  Open 
China."  China  Proper  is  not  open :  but  around  it, 
there  is  free  access  to  at  least  Jifty  millions  of  Chinese, 
who  keep  up  a  regular  intercourse  with  it.  This  door 
has  been  open  for  many  years :  and  if  we  refuse  to  en- 
ter it,  why  should  Providence  open  others  1  In  fact,  it 
is  well  that  others  are  not  yet  opened :  for  who  is  ht 
to  enter  them  ] 


IN   CHINA.  261 

Consider  this.  The  existing-  state  of  things  in  that 
empire  is  just  what  it  ought  to  be,  whilst  the  existing 
state  of  things  in  the  churches  remains  what  it  is. 
God  is  "  the  God  of  order,  not  of  confusion ;"  and, 
therefore,  he  will  not  throw  open  such  an  empire,  until 
he  can  throw  into  it  efficient  agents,  in  something  like 
sufficient  numbers.  The  good  Shepherd  "  gently  leads 
those  that  be  with  young ;"  and,  therefore,  he  will  not 
task  nor  tax  his  churches  beyond  their  ability.  The 
unwilling  and  the  unwise  may  insist  on  China  being 
open  to  the  gospel,  before  they  open  their  hearts  or 
hands  to  China:  but  Providence  is  not  thus  unrea- 
sonable or  unkind.  He  has  too  much  regard  even  for 
their  comfort,  and  too  much  pity  even  for  their  weak- 
ness, to  bring  on  a  demand  upon  their  families  or  pro- 
perty, which  would  either  impoverish  them,  or  tempt 
them  to  desert  his  cause  entirely.  He  knows  such  men 
too  well,  and  loves  better  men  too  much,  to  hurry  on  a 
crisis  which  would  be  fatal  to  the  half-hearted,  and 
overwhelming  to  the  simple.  He  will  stir  up  no  crusade 
for  China,  which,  like  that  for  Palestine,  would  drain  the 
resources  or  the  strength  of  the  British  and  American 
churches.  Accordingly,  Providence  is  making  no  de- 
mand, at  present,  beyond  their  ability.  They  are  able  to 
occupy  posts  of  observation  and  action,  all  around  China. 
They  are  able  to  furnish  and  sustain  as  many  agents,  as 
there  are  stations.  They  are,  also,  willing,  waiting,  yea, 
longing  to  be  led  out  to  the  help  of  the  Lord  in  "  these 
quarters."  Already  they  are  whispering  his  own  ques- 
tion, "  Who  will  go  for  us  ]"  and  ere  long  they  will 
thunder  it,  in  a  voice  which  will  make  "  the  posts  of 
the  doors''^  of  all  colleges  "  move .'" 

He  must  have  something  more  of  Isaiah  in  him. 


262  BAPTISM   FOR   THE   DEAD, 

than  the  evangelical  spirit  of  that  prophet,  who  is  war- 
ranted to  say  at  once,  in  answer  to  this  question, 
"  Here  am  /,  send  Tne."  In  general,  they  are  not  the 
fittest  to  go,  who  are  the  first  to  offer.  An  immediate 
answer  to  a  rousing  or  melting  appeal  on  behalf  of 
China  or  India,  ought  not  to  be  accepted  or  given,  un- 
less it  be  the  explosion  of  a  "  secret  fire,"  which  has 
been  long  pent  up  in  the  spirit,  and  only  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  explode.  Then,  it  cannot  be  too  promptly 
given,  nor  too  readily  accepted.  Morrison  responded 
at  once  to  the  appeal  of  Bogue,  when  Hardcastle  ap- 
pealed to  the  mission  college  at  Gosport,  on  behalf  of 
China.  He  did  right.  His  promptitude  was  prudence 
of  the  highest  order.  His  spirit  and  the  society's  pur- 
pose were  evidently  made  for  each  other,  like  Adam 
and  Eve ;  and,  therefore,  the  moment  they  met  "  they 
kissed  each  other."  China,  and  the  first  thing  that 
could  be  done  there,  (the  translation  of  the  Scriptures,) 
formed  the  precise  element  which  his  spirit,  although 
unable  to  define  it  to  itself,  had  long  been  "  feeling- 
after,"  with  all  the  steadiness  of  an  instinct,  and  all 
the  cravings  of  a  latent  taste :  and,  therefore,  whilst 
he  moved  into  that  element  at  once,  he  did  so  with  as 
much  deliberation  as  delight.  It  had  been  the  vision 
of  years,  and  the  object  of  all  his  prayers,  altliough  he 
could  not  name  it,  until  it  was  brought  before  him  as  a 
reality.  Then,  "  Adam  called  his  wife''s  name  Eve.'*'* 
Is  there  any  great  object,  beyond  the  home  ministry, 
which  thus,  vision-like,  floats  around,  or  flashes  across 
your  spirit;  disturbing  or  diverting  it,  whenever  it  tries 
to  settle  under  any  vine  or  fig-tree  in  the  American 
vineyard  I  Do  you  often  feel  as  if  any  home-sphere 
would,  like  the  cave  in  Horeb,  expose  you  to  the  ques- 


IN   CHINA.  263 

tion  put  to  Elijah,  "  What  doest  thou  here  1"  This 
may  be  a  "  heavenly  vision,"  although  yet  dim  and  un- 
defined. Deem  it  not  so,  however, — if  your  health  be 
delicate,  or  your  nerves  weak,  or  your  spirits  constitu- 
tionally low,  or  your  tact  for  acquiring  languages  small, 
or  your  fear  of  dangers  great.  It  is  not  "heavenly," 
in  the  sense  of  a  call,  to  go  abroad,  if  your  physical  or 
mental  powers  be  but  questionably  adapted  to  foreign 
labour.  It  is,  however,  heavenly  in  a  sublime  sense  : 
for  God  is  thus  moulding  your  spirit  to  the  love  and 
espousal  of  the  missionary  cause  now,  that,  when  you 
begin  your  ministry,  and  whilst  you  continue  it,  you 
may  sustain  that  cause  by  your  advocacy,  and  extend 
it  by  your  example,  at  home.  And,  next  to  a  high  tone 
of  spiritual-mindedness,  you  can  carry  nothing  more 
healthy  into  your  future  sphere,  than  the  "  holy  fire" 
of  missionary  zeal.  Your  flock,  wherever  it  be,  will 
certainly  quarrel  or  decline,  unless  you  fill  their  hearts 
and  hands  with  as  much  of  God's  work  at  home  and 
abroad,  as  they  can  hold.  He  must  now  "  feed  swine," 
(I  mean  Antinomians,)  who  will  not  make  the  sheep, 
and  the  lambs  too,  useful  to  the  great  Shepherd.  Let 
it  be  seen,  wherever  you  go,  that  '■'■it  was  in  thine 
heart''''  to  build  a  house  unto  the  Lord,  "  not  upon  an- 
other man's  foundation."  David  was  not  permitted  to 
build  the  temple ;  but  no  man  contributed  more  to  its 
erection,  than  he  did.  His  property  or  influence  might 
be  traced,  in  splendid  forms,  from  its  foundation  to  its 
top-stone,  and  from  the  holy  of  holies  to  the  court  of  the 
gentiles.  Thus  any  of  you  can  make  up,  at  home,  for 
what  you  cannot  do  abroad.  But  you  are  not  all  placed 
thus.  Some  of  you  are  fit  to  go,  and  free  to  go.  Both 
your  frame  and  your  aspect  bear  the  stamp  of  enter- 


264  BAPTISM    FOR    THE    DEAD, 

prise.  Only  mark  how  they  tlirill  to  the  thrilling  cry 
of  Morrison,  in  his  "  Parting  Memorial ;"  "  Alas,  my 
brethren,  how  long  shall  the  millions  of  eastern  Asia 
inherit  lies !" 

"  To  every  tone,  with  tender  heat, 
Your  heart-strinjus  vibrate,  and  your  pulses  beat." 

Who  then  will  be  baptized  for  the  dead  ■?  Remem- 
ber; they  are  emphatically  "the  mighty  dead:"  so 
mighty,  that  a  double  portion  of  the  spirit  of  Morrison 
and  Milne  is  sure  to  rest  upon  their  successors.  And 
if  the  tomb  of  Xavier,  on  the  Island  of  Sancian,  could 
call  forth  the  flower  of  the  Papacy  to  baptism  for  the 
dead,  shall  the  tombs  of  the  first  Protestant  mission- 
aries at  Macao,  appeal  in  vain  to  Protestant  colleges  ] 
God  forbid ! 

Be  not  afraid  of  the  Chinese  language.  It  is,  indeed, 
peculiar,  even  unique ;  but  it  is  also  fascinating.  The 
Hierogliphs  are  not  all  arbitrary.  What  can  be  finer 
than  the  symbol  of  friendship  ? — two  pearls  of  equal 
size  and  purity:  showing  how  rare  and  valuable  it  is. 
Besides,  the  language  was  acquired  by  many,  even 
before  Dr.  Morrison  published  his  Dictionary.  Hear 
what  his  son  says  on  this  subject : — 

"  It  cannot  be  learned  in  a  day,  but  demands  long 
and  attentive  study.  I  say  not  this  to  discourage  any 
one :  for  the  number  of  those  (not  by  any  means  men 
of  great  natural  abilities  or  quickness  of  parts)  wlio  have 
attained  a  useful  knowledge  of  the  language,  is  a  suffi- 
cient guarantee  for  the  practicability  of  acquiring  it." 
Add  to  this  fact,  the  experience  of  the  Popish  mission- 
aries. They  never  failed  to  master  tlie  language. 
They  went  out  young,  and  well-grounded  in  the  class- 


IN    CHINA.  265 

ics,  and  making-  their  purpose  their  fate ;  and  they  were 
soon  able  to  speak  in  courts  or  cottages.  So  may  you. 
It  is  not  desirable,  however,  that  all  who  g-o  to  China 
should  contemplate  the  study  of  its  classics,  to  any 
great  extent.  The  majority  ought,  certainly,  to  pre- 
pare themselves  to  wield  with  ease  and  power,  the 
mighty  energies  and  facilities  of  the  press :  but  some 
ought  to  set  their  hearts  quite  as  resolutely  upon  ac- 
quiring the  vernacular,  with  an  express  view  to  preach- 
ing the  gospel.  Indeed,  were  I  not  too  old  and  infirm 
to  be  worth  the  expense  of  being  sent  out,  I,  for  one, 
(notwithstanding  all  my  partialities  to  the  pen,)  should 
feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to  become  a  scholar  in  one  of  the 
Chinese  day-schools  for  boys,  that  I  might  obtain  just 
the  same  instruction  which  the  natives  give  to  their 
children.  I  certainly  could  learn  what  .their  children 
are  taught:  and  that,  with  what  I  could  acquire  by 
frequent  and  friendly  intercourse  with  the  people, 
would  soon  enable  me  to  tell  them  "  the  wonderful 
works  of  God,  in  their  own  tongue."  I  throw  out  this 
hint,  because  some  of  you  may  be  hindered  by  the  sus- 
picion, that  great  proficiency  in  the  written  language 
of  China  is  essential  to  usefulness.  But  this,  although 
the  general  rule,  admits  of  exceptions.  Indeed,  excep- 
tions ought  to  be  forced  and  fastened  upon  that  general 
rule :  for  it  is  itself  an  exception  to  the  general  rule  of 
scripture.  Preaching  the  gospel  is  God's  ordinance; 
and,  therefore,  no  present  peculiarity  of  China  can  be 
safely  allowed  to  set  aside  preaching.  All  other  me- 
thods of  doing  good  "are  lawful,"  yea,  obligatory, 
whilst  this  is  impracticable :  but  to  make  this  practi- 
cable, ought  to  be  the  grand  aim  of  all  preliminary 
operations. 

L  1 


266      BAPTISM    FOR    THE   DEAD,    IN    CHINA. 

And  now,  beloved  young  friends !  who  will  be  bap- 
tized for  the  dead  1  The  eyes  of  the  churches — of  the 
societies — of  the  Chinese — of  the  world,  are  upon  your 
ranks.  The  eye  of  Omniscience  is  upon  all  your  hearts ! 
Shall  God  have  to  say,  "  I  beheld,  and  there  was  no 
man  to  answer,"  when  I  asked,  "Who  will  go  for  us]" 
What,  no  man  amongst  all  the  sons  of  the  prophets ! 
It  may  not,  must  not,  cannot  be,  that  prophets  should 
not  be  found  for  China !  Angels  wait  for  your  decision. 
The  souls  under  the  altar  chide  your  delay.  Hell  will 
say,  "  Aha ;  so  would  we  have  it ;"  if  you  all  refuse. 

Redeem  the  character  of  Protestantism  :  for,  hitherto. 
Popish  colleges  have  furnished  most  missionaries  for 
China. 

Newington  Green,  (Eng.)  1835. 


267 


THE  MARTYRED  MISSIONARY  AND  HIS 
WIDOWED  MOTHER. 

BY  HEMAN  HUMPHREY,  D.D. 

Henry  L.  was  born  in  that  delightful  villag-e  on  the 
banks  of  the  Connecticut,  where  the  great  Edwards 
reaped  his  spiritual  harvests,  and  the  apostolic  Brainard 
"rests  from  his  labours."  He  was  a  son  of  many 
prayers ;  and  I  have  heard  his  father  speak  with  deep 
emotion,  of  the  thanksgivings  and  wrestlings  with 
which  he  "  lent  the  child  to  the  Lord  all  the  days  of 
his  life,"  in  full  faith  that  he  would  "  be  born  again," 
and  called  to  the  work  of  the  ministry.  Henry  was 
early  informed,  and  often  reminded  of  this  his  infant 
dedication ;  but  he  grew  up,  as  other  boys  do,  without 
the  love  of  God  in  his  heart.  Much  as  he  loved  his 
father  and  mother,  he  was  so  far  from  making  their  act 
his  own,  that  there  is  reason  to  believe  he  secretly  re- 
solved to  mark  out  his  own  course,  and  in  pursuing  it, 
to  "  walk  in  the  way  of  his  own  heart,  and  after  the 
sight  of  his  own  eyes."  Entirely  averse  as  he  was, 
and  as  "  the  carnal  mind"  always  is,  to  holiness  and 
self-denial,  how  could  he  think  of  "taking  up  the 
cross,"  and  following  Him  "  who  was  despised  and  re- 
jected of  men,  and  in  whom  he  saw  no  form  nor  come- 
liness why  he  should  desire  him." 

He  however  wished  for  a  public  education;  and 
having  read  the  preparatory  books,  came  to  college,  in 


268  THE    MARTYRED    MISSIONARY. 

the  autumn  of  1825,  a  tall  and  "  g-oodly"  young  man, 
with  a  frank  and  open  countenance,  fine  health,  and  a 
perilous  flow  of  animal  spirits.  Guided  as  he  had  been, 
from  early  childhood,  in  "  the  right  ways  of  the  Lord," 
by  parental  instruction  and  example,  an  enlightened 
conscience  held  the  wayward  propensities  of  his  heart 
in  check ;  and  it  was  manifest,  from  his  alternate  rest- 
lessness and  fixed  attention  under  the  preaching  of  the 
word,  that  tlie  truth  did  not  fall  powerless  upon  his 
ear. 

In  the  spring  of  1827,  God  was  pleased  to  pour  out  his 
Spirit  upon  the  college,  and  young  L.  was  among  the 
first  who  were  roused  from  their  stupidity.  With  all 
his  constitutional  frankness,  he  disclosed  his  feelings  at 
once  to  some  of  his  pious  classmates.  It  was  manifest 
enough,  that  the  Spirit  had  begun  to  strive  with  him ; 
but  it  was  rather  fear  of  punishment,  than  conviction 
of  sin,  that  agitated  his  mind.  Finding  no  relief,  as  he 
flattered  himself  he  speedily  should,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
impatience,  bordering  on  desperation,  he  rushed  out  of 
the  room,  declaring  that  he  would  throw  off"  the  intoler- 
able burden,  and  think  no  more  of  the  matter.  The 
shock  of  that  hour,  the  anxieties  of  that  day,  I  can 
never  forget.  All  our  hopes  of  his  conversion  were 
overcast  in  a  moment.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  thrown 
himself  over  a  precipice,  and  what  could  save  him  from 
being  dashed  in  pieces'?  But  God,  in  his  boundless 
mercy,  interposed.  His  distress  rolled  back  upon  his 
soul,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  overwhelming  him  with 
an  awful  sense  of  his  guilt,  as  well  as  danger.  "  What 
must  I  do  to  be  saved?"  was  now  the  all-absorbing 
question — but  his  proud  heart  would  not  bow.  Tlioiigh 
the  conflict  was  terrible,  and  the  issue  fearfully  uncer- 


THE    MARTYRED    MISSIONARY.  269 

tain,  it  was  short.  Henry  L.  was  in  two  or  three  days 
found  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  clothed  and  in  his 
right  mind.  From  that  hour,  no  one  could  question, 
tliat  whatever  others  might  do,  it  was  his  fixed  and 
settled  purpose  to  be  "  on  the  Lord's  side."  All  his  plans 
were  changed,  and  all  his  energies  were  subjected  to 
a  new  impulse.  Without  loss  of  time,  he  ratified  the 
covenant  made  by  his  parents  when  he  was  born,  in  its 
full  extent.  At  the  close  of  the  succeeding  term  he 
united  with  the  college  church,  and  sustained  the  cha- 
racter of  a  consistent  and  devoted  member  till  he  gra- 
duated in  1829. 

Soon  after  leaving  college,  Mr.  L.  commenced  his 
professional  studies  in  the  Theological  Seminary  of 

A ,  where  he  spent  three  years.    He  thought  there 

could  be  no  higher,  nobler  earthly  aim,  than  to  become 
thoroughly  qualified  to  preach  the  everlasting  gospel. 
But  what  field  of  labour  should  he  himself  enter  1 
Should  he  remain  at  home,  or  should  he  "  go  far  hence 
unto  the  Gentiles  3"  The  heathen  were  perishing,  and 
his  choice  was  soon  fixed.  His  parents  perceived  it  in 
the  benevolent  aspirations  of  his  soul,  long  before  his 
lips  made  the  disclosure ;  and  when  he  "  told  them  all 
his  heart,"  and  craved  their  consent  and  their  blessing, 
"  immediately  they  conferred  not  with  flesh  and  blood," 
but  said,  go,  and  "  the  Lord  be  with  thee." 

While  pursuing  his  theological  course,  Mr.  L.  be- 
came exceedingly  interested  in  the  Dyaks  of  Borneo, 
who  were  then  represented  as  even  more  savage  and 
blood-thirsty  than  the  cannibal  tribes  of  New  Zealand. 
Could  any  thing  be  done  to  save  themi  "While  he 
was  musing  the  fire  burned."  They  were  continually 
before  him,  in  all  their  horrible  barbarity.     Day  and 


270  THE    MARTYRED    MISSIONARY. 

night  his  ardent  spirit  yearned  over  them ;  and  though 
he  had  reason  to  believe  that  no  white  man  could  ven- 
ture within  their  reach,  even  for  an  hour,  without  ex- 
treme danger,  his  desire  to  visit  their  country  and 
attempt  their  conversion  became  irrepressible.  The 
American  Board,  under  whose  direction  he  had  placed 
himself,  yielded  to  his  wishes;  and,  as  soon  as  the 
necessary  preparations  could  be  made,  he  embarked 
with  a  brother  of  a  kindred  soul,  for  the  great  eastern 
Archipelago.  Touching  at  Batavia,  on  the  frontiers  of 
that  vast  empire  of  pagan  darkness,  they  yielded  to  the 
judgment  of  an  experienced  veteran  in  the  missionary 
service,  whom  they  met  there,  and  concluded  to  remain, 
till  they  could  make  the  wisest  and  best  arrangements 
in  their  power  for  proceeding  to  the  place  of  their  des- 
tination. While  they  were  waiting  at  Batavia,  they 
were  induced  to  plan  a  voyage  to  the  island  of  Sumatra, 
with  the  view  of  spending  a  few  weeks  in  exploring 
the  country  of  the  Battas,  which  it  was  supposed  might 
be  done  without  any  greater  hazard  than  missionaries 
have  often  encountered,  with  entire  safety. 

They  landed — they  sought  for  information — they 
were  encouraged — they  were  dissuaded — they  looked 
to  heaven  for  direction,  and  finally  resolved  to  proceed. 
Having  procured  suitable  guides,  they  advanced  slowly 
and  with  great  difficulty  three  or  four  days'  journey 
into  the  interior,  when  they  came  suddenly  upon  a  kind 
of  fort,  which  belonged  to  the  Battas,  and  from  which 
they  sallied  out  with  the  most  hostile  demonstrations. 
The  guides  fled.  The  missionaries  could  not  make 
known  their  benevolent  errand,  for  there  was  no  one 
to  interpret,  and  the  spears  of  the  barbarians  soon  closed 
the  interview  in  blood.    How  the  orgies  of  the  succeed- 


THE    MARTYRED    MISSIONARY.  271 

ing  night  were  kept  may  be  conjectured,  for  the  Battas 
too  are  cannibals.  But  the  martyrs — young,  vigorous, 
ardent  and  fresh  from  their  long  preparations — went  up 
(who  can  doubt  it])  to  receive  their  crowns.  What  a 
change  !  How  sudden — how  great — how  glorious  ! 
One  hour  entangled  in  those  horrid  jungles,  and  the 
next  walking  "the  streets  of  the  New  Jerusalem!" 
One  moment  stunned  by  savage  yells,  in  the  agonies 
of  a  cruel  death,  and  the  next  listening  to  the  song  of 
Moses  and  the  Lamb  ! 

When  Henry  L.  left  America,  both  his  parents  were 
living  to  receive  his  last  embrace,  and  to  commend  him 
to  the  protection  of  that  Power  which  rules  the  winds 
and  the  waves.  In  the  autumn  of  1834,  his  father  was 
suddenly  called  away  from  a  large  and  dependent  family, 
several  months  after  the  death  of  Henry,  but  before  the 
tragical  news  had  reached  this  country.  His  mother, 
now  a  widow  in  feeble  health  and  deep  affliction,  was 
my  neighbour.  The  letters  from  Batavia  which  brought 
the  overwhelming  intelligence  to  her  brother,  were  of 
such  a  character  as  to  leave  no  room  for  doubt,  or  hope. 
As  soon  as  I  learned  their  contents,  I  was  on  my  way 
to  her  dwelling.  But  how  should  I  meet  her,  whose 
life,  since  the  death  of  her  husband,  was  more  than 
ever  "  bound  up"  in  Henry  1  What  sympathies  had  I 
to  offer  in  such  an  hour?  What  could  I  do  but  sit 
down,  like  Job's  friends,  without  speaking  a  word'? 
Surely  I  shall  find  the  martyred  missionary's  widowed 
mother,  utterly  prostrated  by  the  shock.  Such  were 
my  thoughts,  during  the  few  moments  that  it  required 
to  bring  me  to  her  door,  and  such  the  painful  anticipa- 
tions with  which  I  entered  the  house.  But  how  could 
I  do  her  this  great  injustice ;  or  rather,  how  could  I 


272  THE    MARTYRED    MISSIONARY. 

thus  "make  the  grace  of  God  of  none  effect  ]"     I  was 
never  more  mistaken  in  my  life. 

She  was  not  prostrated.  She  met  me  as  usual  with 
a  smile.  It  shone  through  her  tears,  it  is  true;  but  it 
was  no  less  a  smile  for  that.  "  This  day  brings  you 
heavy  tidings."  "Yes,"  was  her  calm  reply;  "but  I 
am  so  far  from  being  sorry  I  parted  with  Henry,  as 
a  missionary  to  the  heathen,  that  I  never  in  my  life 
felt  so  strong  a  desire  that  some  of  my  other  children 
might  engage  in  the  same  cause.  O,  how  much  do 
those  poor  creatures,  who  have  murdered  my  son,  need 
the  gospel !"  The  surprise,  the  relief  of  that  moment, 
I  cannot  express.  It  was  giving  a  turn  to  the  affliction 
which  I  had  not  thought  of.  But  it  was  so  natural,  or 
rather,  there  was  so  much  of  the  grace  of  God  in  it,  that 
as  the  new  idea  flashed  upon  my  mind,  I  seemed  to  see 
the  conversion  of  the  poor  Battas  intimately  connected, 
and  very  much  hastened,  by  the  tragical  event.  Surely  it 
will,  I  said  to  myself,  excite  the  clmrch  to  more  fervent 
prayers  and  more  strenuous  efforts  in  their  behalf  The 
more  savage  they  are,  the  more  urgent  the  reasons  for 
sending  them  missionaries.  Here  is  a  widowed  mother, 
whose  son  they  massacred  in  cold  blood,  before  he  could 
speak  a  word  to  them  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  great  atoning 
sacrifice, — wishing,  in  the  first  moments  of  her  grief, 
that  her  other  children  might  be  prepared  to  go  and 
carry  them  the  gospel  of  peace.  Surely,  when  Chris- 
tian mothers  come,  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands,  to 
issues  like  these,  all  "  tlie  dark  places  of  the  earth, 
which  are  full  of  the  habitations  of  cruelty,"  will  be 
enlightened,  and  become  the  dwelling  places  of  right- 
eousness, and  peace,  and  joy  in  tlie  Holy  Ghost. 
Amherst,  (Mass.) 


273 


AUGUSTUS  FOSTER  LYDE. 

BY  REV.  JOHN  W.  BROWNE. 

The  Rev.  Augustus  Foster  Lyde,  will  not  soon  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  knew  him.  He  had  it  in  his  heart  to  preach  the  gospel  to 
the  Chinese,  but  died  soon  after  his  ordination.  His  last  words  to 
the  brethren  of  the  Missionary  Association  of  the  General  Episcopal 
Theological  Seminary  were,  "Brethren,  pray  for  me;  pray  that  my 
health  may  be  restored.  God  is  my  witness  I  ask  it  not  for  myself, 
I  ask  it  for  China." 

The  morn,  whose  clear  uprise 
Is  rich  with  promise  of  a  brilliant  day, 
Often,  amid  the  gloom  of  clouded  skies, 

Fades  suddenly  away. 

Thy  morning,  Lyde  !  was  blest 
With  tokens  of  a  day  of  strength  and  power. 
But  thou  wert  called  to  thine  eternal  rest 

In  its  most  brilliant  hour. 

And  many  were  the  tears 
We  shed  for  thee,  dear  brother !  for  we  wept 
One,  on  whose  spirit,  in  its  earliest  years 

Manhood's  high  promise  slept. 

For  thine  was  manly  truth. 
And  high  devotion,  and  unwearied  zeal, 
And  wisdom,  which  the  ardent  mind  of  youth 

But  rarely  doth  reveal ; — 

An  intellect,  whose  range' 
Was  in  the  purest,  loveliest  realms  of  thought ; 
A  heart,  above  all  fickleness  and  change, 

With  its  deep  love  unbought. 
M  m 


274        AUGUSTUS  FOSTER  LYDE. 

Richly  the  Spirit  dwelt 
Within  thee,  in  its  sanctifying  power ; 
Its  holy  energy,  most  deeply  felt 

In  nature's  weakest  hour. 

Thy  spirit  burned  to  tell 
The  tidings  of  redeeming  love,  to  those 
Who  sin  hath  circled  in  her  darkest  spell 

Of  ignorance  and  woes. 

Thou  didst  devote  thy  life 
To  bear  the  glorious  name  of  Christ  abroad, 
Where  China's  deep  idolatries  are  rife 

With  the  contempt  of  God. 

But  thou  wert  called  away, 
Ere  thou  hadst  fully  bound  thine  armour  on. 
From  the  drear  strife  of  earth,  to  endless  day, 

From  toil  to  glory  won. 

Thy  parting  words  were  fraught 
With  mournful  presage  of  thine  early  fate. 
As  thy  mind  lingered  in  prophetic  thought 

On  hopes  made  desolate. 

We  love  to  think  of  thee, 
Even  as  thou  wert,  when  thy  fraternal  tone 
Melted  within  our  ear,  persuasively, 

With  music  of  its  own. 

We  love  to  think  of  thee, 
To  fancy  thy  calm  presence  with  us  yet, 
As  one  of  those  sweet  stars  of  memory 

Which  never  wane  or  set. 

New  York. 


275 


OLYMPIA  FULVIA  MORATA. 

BY  REV.  CHARLES  HENRY  ALDEN. 

Olympia  Fulvia  Morata  was  born  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  renowned  court  of  Ferrara,  about  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  modern  traveller 
along  the  banks  of  the  Po,  as  he  enters  this  celebrated 
seat  of  the  Princes  of  Este,  once  so  prominent  as  both 
the  patrons  and  the  persecutors  of  the  learned,  passes 
through  streets  spacious,  solitary  and  grass-grown,  till 
he  reaches  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  where  the  proud 
walls  of  the  castle  present  themselves  with  their  lofty 
battlements  and  towers,  surrounded  still  by  its  moat 
and  ditch.  He  visits,  near  at  hand,  the  cell  of  the 
hospital  of  Santa  Anna,  in  which  Tasso  was  so  bar- 
barously immured ;  the  dungeons  where  perished 
several  votaries  of  the  Reformation,  "  of  whom  the 
world  was  not  worthy ;"  and  the  tomb  of  the  oppressed 
and  injured  Ariosto.  Not  so  in  the  days  of  Olympia. 
"  The  witty,  the  wise  and  the  virtuous  Renne,"  was 
the  object  of  general  attraction  to  the  learned  and 
accomplished  of  all  Italy.  The  post  of  private  secre- 
tary was  filled  by  the  father  of  the  immortal  Tasso ; 
the  court  physician  was  the  celebrated  Manzolli ;  while 
the  godfather  and  the  father  himself  of  Olympia  were 
alike  versed  in  profound  and  elegant  literature,  and 
were  devoted  Christians. 

In  an  atmosphere  like  this,  she  could  scarcely  fail  to 
develop  her  wonderful  powers  of  intellect,  and  richness 


276  OLYMPIA    FULVIA    MORATA. 

of  emotions,  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  At  the  early 
period  of  twelve,  she  was  thoroughly  instructed  in  the 
Greek  and  Latin  tongues,  and  in  such  branches  of 
natural  and  mental  philosophy  as  were  at  that  time 
known.  And  yet  such  was  the  sweetness  of  her  dis- 
position and  her  winning  modesty,  that  the  robe  of 
learning  floated  most  easily  and  gracefully  round  her 
youthful  form.  Though  cheered  by  the  smiles  of  the 
court,  and  the  object  of  intoxicating  adulation,  her  hu- 
mility and  piety  led  her  to  ascribe  these  attentions  to 
her  position  as  a  royal  favourite,  and  as  the  companion 
of  the  beautiful  and  learned  and  virtuous  Anna  of  Este, 
afterwards  the  Duchess  of  Guise,  rather  than  to  her 
uncommon  attainments. 

For  ten  years  from  the  age  of  sixteen,  was  Olympia 
the  devoted  and  loved  companion  and  friend  of  this 
Anna ;  and  who,  through  her  instrumentality,  adorned 
the  walks  of  unostentatious  piety,  as  well  as  those  of 
letters ;  and  though  she  died  in  the  bosom  of  the  church 
of  Rome,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  she  was  at  heart 
a  Protestant  and  a  Christian.  As  to  Olympia  herself, 
she  drank  of  the  "waters  of  life,"  and  "adorned," 
even  in  the  blaze  of  court  favour,  "  the  doctrine  of  God 
her  Saviour."  Her  acts  of  self  sacrifice,  of  fidelity  in 
the  way  of  duty,  showed  that  her  "  faith  worked  by 
love  and  purified  her  heart." 

It  was  a  favourite  retreat — at  the  hour  of  evening, 
and  unattended — a  rocky  prominence  on  the  neigh- 
bouring coast  of  the  Adriatic.  Here,  as  if  to  arm  her- 
self against  the  temptations  peculiar  to  the  court,  would 
she  hold  high  and  holy  contemplation.  At  an  hour  when 

"  Just  ononjih  dim  lijrlit  is  {riven 
Earth  to  veil,  to  open  lieaven," 


OLYMPIA    FULVIA    MORATA.  277 

would  she  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  elevated  and  holy 
influence. 

Under  such  circumstances  is  she  beautifully  repre- 
sented in  the  plate.  Her  countenance  expressive  of 
celestial  serenity ;  the  aspect  of  bodily  repose  so  as  to 
leave  undisturbed  the  actings  of  mind  intent  on  the 
noblest  subjects;  her  eyes  indicating  the  tendency  of 
the  soul  to  the  greatness  and  purity  of  the  upper  world, 
and  beaming  with  intelligence  of  its  holy  inhabitants, — 
these  strike  the  beholder  with  mingled  admiration  and 
reverence. 

How  beautifully  in  keeping,  too,  is  the  scenery 
around  I  The  adamantine  rocks  on  which  she  reposes 
her  person ; — the  close  of  the  day ; — the  moon  just 
rising  from  its  watery  bed,  casting  its  touches  of  silver 
on  the  scarcely  rippled  waves, — all  is  apart  from  mor- 
tals and  mortal  concerns ;  while  the  imperishable  rocks 
and  the  boundless  sea  are  fitting  emblems  of  that  im- 
mortality to  which  she  seems  so  devoutly  to  aspire. 

This  gifted,  this  extraordinary  young  lady,  numbered 
less  than  thirty  summers.  But  she  lived  long  enough 
to  leave  a  splendid  example  to  the  young  of  her  sex  of 
the  pre-eminence  of  character  formed  by  the  union  of 
mental  and  religious  culture.  And  she  who  would 
hope  to  emulate  her  elevation  and  her  hopes  by  the 
acquisition  of  learning  without  piety,  clings  for  safety 
to  an  iceberg,  which,  if  not  melted  here  by  the  warmth 
of  pure  devotion,  must  dissolve  in  the  fires  of  another 
world  ! 

Philadelphia. 


*Si 


278 


PEACE  OF  MIND. 


BY  THOMAS  RAFFLES,  D.D. 


I. 

Come,  heavenly  peace  of  mind, 

Descend  into  my  breast. 
For  thee  I  long  have  pined, 

O  g'ive  my  spirit  rest: 
For  thou  canst  chase  the  fiend  despair, 
And  smooth  the  rugged  brow  of  care. 

II. 

But  where's  thy  dwelling  place? 

To  thy  retreat  I'd  flee ; 
O,  yield  to  my  embrace. 

And  be  a  guest  with  me : 
Dispel  the  cares  that  now  corrode, 
And  make  my  bosom  thy  abode. 

III. 
I've  sought  thee  long  in  vain. 

And  panted  for  thy  smile  ; 
For  thou  canst  ease  my  pain. 

And  all  my  wo  beguile : 
And  wilt  thou  heedless  pass  me  by. 
And  leave  me  in  despair  to  die  1 


PEACE    OF    MIND.  279 


IV. 

The  gayest  circles  round 

Are  dull  and  blank  to  me, 
I  feel  a  grief  profound 

Amidst  their  revelry ; 
And  thoug-h  in  them  I  bear  a  part, 
The  anguish  still  is  in  my  heart. 

V. 

And,  if  chagrin'd  I  turn 

To  solitude  and  shade, 
I  still  am  doom'd  to  mourn — 

My  grief  is  unallay'd  : 
O,  why  prolong  the  plaintive  strain, 
Where  echo  only  mocks  my  pain. 

VI. 

For  streams  that  gently  flow 

The  peaceful  vales  among. 
And  groves  that  only  know 

The  melody  of  song — 
The  inward  storm  can  ne'er  control. 
Nor  breathe  their  influence  o'er  my  soul. 

VII. 

'Twas  thus  my  spirit  sigh'd, 
And  pour'd  its  plaintive  moan : 

When  lo !  a  voice  replied, 
With  love  in  every  tone, 

"  The  boon  you  seek  is  mine  to  give, 

Then  mourner,  look  to  me  and  live." 


280  PEACE    OF    MIND. 

VIII. 

It  was  His  voice,  who  hung 
Upon  the  accursed  tree — 

Whose  spirit  there  was  wrung 
With  keenest  agony. 

0  gracious  words !  I  hear  them  yet — 
Methinks  I  never  can  forget. 

IX. 

1  look'd,  and  felt  relief, 

And  life  in  every  gaze ; 
Then  joy  succeeded  grief, 

And  calm  and  happy  days. 
His  smile  has  chas'd  the  gloom  away, 
And  turn'd  my  midnight  into  day. 

X. 

Hail,  heavenly  peace  of  mind  ! 

Thy  dwelling  place,  serene. 
No  mortal  e'er  can  find, 

In  all  this  earthly  scene : 
In  vain  I  sought  the  gift  divine, 
Till  faith  in  Jesus  made  thee  mine. 

Liverpool,  (Eng.)  1837. 


281 


INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATUEE  ON  THE  MORAL 
SENTIMENTS. 

BY  ALONZO  POTTER,  D.D. 

The  reality  and  supremacy  of  conscience  are  to  be 
assumed  in  all  inquiries  respecting  our  duty.  Caution 
is  requisite,  however,  lest  we  overrate  the  power,  or 
the  rectitude  of  this  faculty.  We  can  do  little  towards 
improving  our  moral  sentiments,  or  discharging  the 
various  duties  of  life,  unless  we  keep  constantly  in 
mind  the  extreme  weakness  and  fallibility  of  this  moral 
monitor.  That  which  was  placed  by  the  Creator  as 
sovereign  among  our  faculties,  is  often  superseded  by 
passion,  and  even  by  the  capricious  tyranny  of  custom 
and  fashion.  Its  mandates  are  resisted — its  voice,  at 
first  on  the  side  of  virtue,  is  lulled  into  silence  or  bribed 
to  plead  in  behalf  of  evil ;  and  our  souls  are  left  to  the 
undisturbed  and  perhaps  exulting  pursuit  of  sin  and 
death.  This  perversion  of  conscience,  too,  is  fearfully 
easy.  We  have  only  to  refuse,  when  it  speaks,  to 
listen  or  obey — we  have  simply  to  stifle  its  sacred  sug- 
gestions, and  look  round  for  pretexts  to  justify  self- 
indulgence,  and  it  will  soon  cease  to  admonish,  or  will 
admonish  only  to  mislead.  There  are  those  who  derive 
from  a  perverted  conscience  only  impulse  to  evil — who 
verily  think,  as  Saul  of  Tarsus  once  thought,  that  they 
ought  to  do  many  things  contrary  to  truth  and  virtue. 
The  light  that  is  in  them  becomes  darkness ;  and  how 
great  is  that  darkness ! 

N  n 


282     INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE 

One  of  the  ways  in  which  our  moral  sense  is  thus 
obscured  or  corrupted,  is  adverted  to  by  the  poet : 

"  Vic6  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As  to  be  dreaded,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace." 

It  would  be  instructive  to  trace  the  qualifications  with 
which  this  description  ought  to  be  received,  to  point 
out  other  ways  in  which  the  same  result  is  produced, 
and  above  all,  to  investigate  the  principles  on  which  it 
takes  place.  It  would  be  found  that  in  some  cases  the 
process  is  voluntary  and  deliberate,  while  in  others  it 
takes  place  almost  insensibly,  and  from  the  operation  of 
external  causes.  It  would  be  seen,  too,  that  some  of  the 
most  useful  and  active  principles  of  our  nature  aid  in 
this  "fell  sorcery,"  and  that  nothing  can  protect  us 
against  it  but  vigilance  and  prayer.  Waiving  these 
inquiries,  however,  we  propose  to  confine  our  remarks 
to  one  of  those  causes  which  operate  insensibly,  but 
which  has,  in  some  of  its  forms,  a  most  fatal  tendency 
to  induce  that  state  in  which  a  rational  and  immortal 
mind  puts  "good  for  evil,  and  light  for  darkness." 

This  is  Literature. — By  most  persons  little  import- 
ance is  attached  to  the  moral  influence  of  our  current, 
or  even  of  our  classical  reading ;  yet  there  can  be  no 
doubt  tliat  it  is  vast,  and  in  many  cases  most  baneful. 
Aliment  taken  into  the  mind  operates  like  aliment 
taken  into  the  body,  by  assimilation.  It  is  converted, 
as  it  were,  into  the  very  substance  of  the  soul,  and  im- 
parts to  it  of  course  its  own  character.  We  hear  of 
the  chamelion,  which  takes  the  hue  of  whatever  it  looks 
upon.     It  is  so,  in  a  measure,  with  our  minds.     It  is 


ON    THE    MORAL    SENTIMENTS.  283 

not  more  impossible  to  associate  as  boon  companion 
with  the  profligate,  and  yet  escape  contamination,  than 
it  is  to  peruse  habitually  works  of  a  low  moral  cast, 
and  yet  retain  high  moral  purity.  Customary  and  cor- 
dial intercourse  with  such  books  is  one  of  those  "  evil 
communications,"  the  inevitable  effect  of  which  is  to 
"  corrupt  good  manners."  If  they  are  works  of  genius, 
their  influence  is  only  the  more  pernicious.  The  ad- 
miration which  we  entertain  for  the  author,  is  extended 
by  association  to  all  his  thoughts ;  and  before  we  are 
aware  we  first  tolerate,  then  are  entertained  by,  and 
finally  embrace  sentiments  of  flagrant  immorality.  In 
no  age,  perhaps,  has  this  danger  been  greater  than  in  the 
present ;  for  in  none  has  there  been  so  much  reading, 
and  in  few  if  any  has  there  been  cherished  such  inordi- 
nate admiration  of  mere  genius,  however  abused  and 
unsanctified. 

It  is,  moreover,  a  danger  which  approaches  us  on 
every  side.  We  can  hardly  open  an  ancient  classic, 
or  a  modern  work  in  poetry  or  fiction,  without  breath- 
ing an  atmosphere  uncongenial  not  only  with  religion, 
but  with  a  pure  and  enlighted  morality.  Take,  for 
example,  the  Iliad  of  Homer ;  a  work  which  has  ex- 
erted, perhaps,  of  all  uninspired  productions,  the  great- 
est influence  over  the  human  mind — of  which  Johnson 
has  said,  that  "  nation  after  nation,  and  generation  after 
generation,  has  done  little  more  than  transpose  its  in- 
cidents, new  name  its  characters,  and  paraphrase  its 
sentiments."  What  moral  impression  does  it  leave 
upon  the  young  and  ardent  mind ']  It  teaches  it  to  feel 
that  courage,  unblenching  firmness  of  nerve,  is  the 
greatest  of  all  virtues ;  that  he  who  wants  it,  is  worthy 
only  of  being  trodden  under  foot.     It  teaches,  that  re- 


284  INFLUENCE    OF    LITERATURE 

venge  is  a  noble  and  godlike  sentiment — that  even 
Achilles,  that  personification  of  wrath  and  vindictive- 
ness,  more  than  atones  for  his  brutality  by  his  affection 
for  a  friend,  and  his  grief  over  that  friend's  loss ;  and 
that  in  short  the  most  glorious  and  enviable  life  is  that 
which  has  been  spent  in  sacrificing  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  other  lives.  Its  effect  on  the  ambitious  and 
martial  spirit  of  Alexander  the  Great  has  been  often 
noticed,  and  is  thus  happily  contrasted  by  Mr.  Whea- 
ton,  in  his  late  work  on  the  Law  of  Nations,  with  that 
produced  on  another  chief  by  an  illustrious  modern 
author : — "  When  he  (Grotius)  could  no  longer  be  use- 
ful in  active  life,  he  laboured  to  win  men  to  the  love  of 
peace  and  justice  by  the  publication  of  his  great  work,* 
which  made  a  deep  impression  upon  all  the  liberal 
minded  princes  and  ministers  of  that  day,  and  contri- 
buted essentially  to  influence  their  public  conduct. 
Alexander  carried  the  Iliad  of  Homer  in  a  golden 
casket,  to  inflame  his  love  of  conquest;  whilst  Gus- 
tavus  Adolphus  slept  with  the  Treatise  on  the  Laws 
of  War  and  Peace  under  his  pillow,  in  that  heroic  war 
which  he  waged  in  Germany  for  the  liberties  of  Pro- 
testant Europe.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  which  presents 
the  most  striking  contrast — the  poet  of  Greece  and  the 
philosopher  of  Holland,  or  the  two  heroes  who  imbibed 
such  different  and  opposite  sentiments  from  their 
pages." 

Look  too  at  Pope,  who  has  been  styled  by  way  of 
eminence  the  moral  poet  of  our  language.  How  rarely 
does   this   gifted   and   finished   writer  allude   in    his 


*  The  troatiso  De  Jure  Belli  ac  Pads,  coniposod  during  the  author's 
exile  in  France,  and  published  at  Paris  in  IbsJa. 


ON    THE    MORAL    SENTOIENTS.  285 

lighter  works  to  the  facts  and  topics  peculiar  to  Chris- 
tianity, without  some  profane  jest ;  while  in  his  philo- 
sophical work,  the  "  Essay  on  Man,"  it  is  plainly  his 
wish  to  furnish  a  system  which  shall  supersede  the 
New  Testament,  and  place  the  subject  of  human  duty 
and  destiny  on  a  better  basis  than  that  on  which  the 
Creator  himself  has  placed  it.  Or  consider  the  works 
of  Lord  Byron,  which  have  been  the  occasion  in  our 
own  day  of  such  an  immense  and  wide-spread  sensation. 
What  a  mournful  and  flag-rant  perversion  of  God's 
noblest  gifts  !  The  poems  of  this  highly  endowed  but 
unhappy  man  seem  to  have  been  expressly  intended  as 
a  vehicle  for  his  most  private  thoughts  and  feelings. 
He  not  only  admits,  but  invites  and  urges  us  into  the 
most  intimate  possible  communion  with  every  wild  im- 
pulse and  base  purpose  of  his  soul — reveals  to  us,  with 
a  morbid  fondness,  the  wasting  desolation  which  has 
passed  over  all  his  nobler  principles  and  affections; 
and  yet  throws  over  the  picture  a  magic  radiance  which 
must  work  upon  us  something  of  the  same  spell  which 
he  would  himself  have  wrought  had  he  been  our  living 
and  confidential  companion.  What  that  spell  might 
have  been,  we  need  not  say.  He  could  hardly  be 
esteemed  a  safe  companion  for  the  young,  who,  to  splen- 
did genius  and  most  fascinating  manners,  should  add 
principles  utterly  reckless  and  abandoned — who  should 
take  delight  in  railing  at  his  species,  in  reviling  as 
heartless  hypocrisy  all  the  appearances  of  generosity 
and  friendship  among  men — who,  by  example  as  well 
as  precept,  recommended  a  life  of  the  merest  sensu- 
ality— who  seemed  to  doubt  whether  Mahommedanism 
were  not  better  than  Christianity  ;  and,  in  short,  whe- 
ther all  virtue  and  religion  were  not  a  dream  rather 


286  INFLUENCE    OF    LITERATURE 

than  a  solemn  reality.  But  if  himself  a  dangerous 
companion,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  writings, 
which  embody  so  completely  his  spirit  and  character, 
can  be  safe. 

If  from  poetry  we  pass  to  the  prose  of  our  language, 
what  do  we  discover  ]  We  discover  that,  in  the  de- 
partment of  liistory,  the  palm  has  been  borne  away  by 
two  authors  not  more  distinguished  for  talents  than  for 
hostility  to  the  Christian  faith,  and  contempt  of  some 
of  the  settled  principles  of  morals — authors,  who  have 
contrived  to  infuse  their  philosophy  so  artfully  through 
their  writings,  that  it  escapes  the  notice  of  any  except 
the  most  vigilant  reader,  and  is  absorbed  into  the  mind 
only  the  more  insensibly,  and  therefore  the  more  fatally. 
In  the  department  of  fiction  it  is  sufficient  to  repeat  the 
names  of  Sterne,  Fielding  and  Smollett,  three  of  its 
most  brilliant  and  admired  contributors.  No  one,  who 
has  read  their  works,  needs  to  be  informed  that  in  many 
instances  they  invest  the  worst  vices  with  an  air  of 
interest  and  attraction ; — that  the  grossest  violations  of 
justice  and  temperance  are  often  treated  as  peccadil- 
loes; that  our  sympathies  are  enlisted  in  behalf  of  men 
whom  in  actual  life  we  should  feel  it  to  be  our  duty  to 
reprobate  and  shun ;  and  that  the  thoughtful  reader,  as 
he  proceeds,  knows  not  at  which  most  to  wonder,  the 
splendour  of  the  author's  talent,  his  deep  knowledge  of 
human  nature — the  ease  with  which  he  can,  at  plea- 
sure, transport  us  with  mirth  or  melt  us  into  pity — or 
at  the  wantonness  with  which  these  high  powers  are 
prostituted  to  the  service  of  evil.  We  are,  by  no  means, 
disposed  to  proscribe  all  works  of  imagination.  That 
there  are  some  of  unexceptionable  moral  tendency,  is 
not  to  be  disputed ;  and  that  all  might  be  made  the 


ON    THE    MORAL    SENTIMENTS.  287 

medium  for  conveying  the  purest  and  most  exalted  les- 
sons of  virtue,  we  would  at  least  hope.  But  what  works 
of  fiction  generally  are,  and  what  they  might  become, 
are  questions  of  very  different  import.  Whoever  con- 
siders attentively  the  prevailing  character  of  this  species 
of  literature  at  present,  will  find  but  too  much  reason 
to  apprehend  that  moral  impressions,  derived  from  such 
a  source,  must  be  lamentably  deficient  both  in  power 
and  correctness. 

In  attributing  to  this  cause  so  great  an  influence, 
however,  we  differ  we  are  aware  from  those  who  are 
entitled  to  the  utmost  consideration.  Dr.  Johnson  in 
adverting  to  it  says,  "  Men  will  not  become  highway- 
men, because  Macheath  is  acquitted  on  the  stage  ;"  and 
Sir  W.  Scott,  in  quoting  the  remark,  adds,  "Neither 
will  they  become  swindlers  and  thieves,  because  they 
sympathize  with  the  fortunes  of  the  witty  picaroon  Gil 
Bias ;  nor  licentious  debauchees,  because  they  read  Tom 
Jones.  The  professed  moral  of  a  piece  is  usually  what 
the  reader  is  least  interested  in ;  it  is  like  the  mendicant 
who  cripples  after  some  gay  and  splendid  procession, 
and  in  vain  solicits  the  attention  of  those  who  have 
been  gazing  upon  it."  All  this,  to  a  certain  extent,  is 
true.  Most  readers  of  fiction  feel,  we  are  aware,  but 
little  interest  in  discovering  its  moral ;  nor  do  we  ap- 
prehend that  to  read  Gil  Bias  or  Tom  Jones  would  of 
necessity  transform  the  reader  into  a  swindler  or  de- 
bauchee. This,  however,  is  far  from  being  the  question 
at  issue.  The  true  question  is,  whether  sympathizing 
often  with  characters  conceived  in  such  a  spirit,  could 
exert  any  but  a  corrupting  influence  on  the  moral  sen- 
sibilities and  principles.  But  few  parents  would  be 
inclined,  we  imagine,  to  have  their  children  associate 


288  INFLUENCE    OF    LITERATURE 

familiarly  with  men  like  either  of  these  well-known 
heroes.  But  if  it  would  not  be  safe  to  associate  with 
them  in  real  life,  can  it  be  prudent  to  make  them  our 
companions  in  the  "  chambers  of  imagery,"  when  fancy 
is  let  loose,  and  the  soul  is  least  on  its  guard  against 
contamination,  and  all  its  susceptibilities  are  thrown 
open  ] 

That  the  danger  of  which  we  speak  is  not  wholly 
imaginary,  let  Dr.  Johnson  himself  be  witness,  in  an- 
other passage.  In  the  fourth  number  of  his  Rambler, 
where  he  had  no  point  to  maintain,  he  speaks  thus  of 
the  influence  of  many  novels :  "  Many  writers,"  says 
he,  "  so  mingle  good  and  bad  qualities  in  their  princi- 
pal personages,  that  they  are  both  equally  conspicuous ; 
and  as  we  accompany  them  through  their  adventures 
with  delight,  and  are  led  by  degrees  to  interest  our- 
selves in  their  favour,  we  lose  the  abhorrence  of  their 
faults  because  they  do  not  hinder  our  pleasure,  or  per- 
haps regard  them  with  some  kindness,  for  being  united 
with  so  much  rnerit.^^  The  whole  paper  is  in  the  same 
strain.  In  a  note  appended  to  it  in  Chalmer's  edition 
of  Johnson's  works,  the  editor  remarks :  "  This  excel- 
lent paper  was  occasioned  by  the  popularity  of  two 
works,  v/hich  appeared  about  this  time,  and  have  been 
the  models  of  that  species  of  romance  now  known  by 
the  more  common  name  of  novel."  It  is  somewhat 
surprising,  that  after  pronouncing  the  above  opinion, 
Johnson  should  have  volunteered,  in  another  number 
of  the  same  work,  to  praise  Richardson  in  the  most 
unqualified  terms,  as  the  "  writer  who  first  taught 
the  passions  to  move  at  the  command  of  virtue."  Of 
Richardson's  great  powers  and  eminent  personal  worth 
there  can  be  no  doubt ;  and  as  little,  that  his  writings 


ON    THE    MORAL    SENTIMENTS.  289 

were  intended  to  subserve  the  cause  of  virtue.  Yet  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  produce,  from  the  history  of  lite- 
rature, an  instance  in  which  an  author,  aiming*  to  im- 
part "ardour  to  virtue  and  confidence  to  truth,"  has 
gone  wider  of  his  mark,  than  was  the  case  with  Rich 
ardson  in  the  conception  and  execution  of  one  at  least 
of  his  master-pieces. 

Dr.  Johnson  has  somewhere  said,  and  to  show  the 
inconsistencies  into  which  the  greatest  minds  may  fall, 
it  will  be  well  to  record  the  sentiment  here — he  has 
somewhere  said,  "Vice  (for  vice  is  necessary  to  be 
shown)  should  always  disgust ;  nor  should  the  graces 
of  gaiety  or  the  dignity  of  courage  be  so  united  with  it, 
as  to  reconcile  it  to  the  mind.  Wherever  it  appears  it 
should  raise  hatred  by  the  malignity  of  its  practices, 
and  contempt  by  the  meanness  of  its  stratagems ;  for 
while  it  is  supported  by  either  parts  or  spirit,  it  will 
seldom  be  heartily  abhorred."  Now  compare  with  this 
admirable  rule,  one  of  the  principal  characters  in  Rich- 
ardson's Clarissa — i.  e.  Lovelace.  He  is  a  man  whom 
the  author  represents  as  having  devoted  his  life  and 
talents  to  the  subversion  of  female  virtue ;  and  who 
perpetrates  acts,  before  the  reader,  which  ought  to  ren- 
der him  the  object  of  unmingled  contempt  and  detesta- 
tion. And  yet  he  has  been  invested  with  so  much  wit 
and  ability ;  he  is  so  surrounded  by  "  the  graces  of 
gaiety  and  the  dignity  of  courage ;"  he  has  such  per- 
severance, such  address,  and  such  liberality  without 
profusion,  that  he  becomes  the  object  rather  of  our  sym- 
pathy and  admiration,  than  of  our  abhorrence.  A 
French  critic  thus  describes  the  effect  produced  on  his 
own  mind  by  this  character.  "  By  turns  I  could  em- 
brace and  fight  with  Lovelace.     His  pride,  his  gaiety, 

00 


290  INFLUENCE    OF    LITERATURE 

his  drollery,  charm  and  amuse  me;  his  genius  con- 
founds and  makes  me  smile ;  his  wickedness  astonishes 
and  enrages  me;  but  at  the  same  time  I  admire  as 
much  as  I  detest  him."  We  may  add,  that  in  most 
minds  the  admiration  will  be  found  greatly  to  predomi- 
nate. 

The  biographer  of  Richardson  informs  us,  that  the 
interest  awakened  in  behalf  of  this  character,  by  the 
first  four  volumes,  was  so  intense,  that  when  a  report 
spread  that  the  catastrophe  was  to  be  fatal  to  him — that 
he  was  doomed  to  die  a  violent  death  as  a  punishment 
for  his  crimes, — the  author  was  beset  on  all  hands  w^ith 
remonstrances.  His  friends  and  correspondents,  in 
great  numbers,  besought  him,  with  the  utmost  earnest- 
ness, to  reform  Lovelace,  and  wind  up  the  story  by  his 
happy  union  with  the  object  of  his  unprincipled  passion. 
And  when  he  resisted  these  persuasions,  some  went 
even  so  far  as  to  entreat,  with  an  air  of  the  most  pitiable 
distress,  that  he  would  at  least  "  save  the  soul "  of  their 
favourite  !  Yet  this  writer,  who  thus  enlists  our  sym- 
pathies in  behalf  of  vice,  is  the  one  whom  the  great 
moralist  eulogises  as  having  "  for  the  first  time  taught 
the  passions  to  move  at  the  command  of  virtue !" 

We  have  thus  insisted  upon  the  moral  dangers  con- 
nected with  a  promiscuous  literature,  because  they 
seem  entitled  to  greater  attention  than  they  have  yet 
received  even  among  Christians.  We  should  be  the 
last  to  exclude  entirely  from  the  circle  of  a  Christian's 
reading,  some  of  the  works  which  we  have  mentioned. 
So  long  as  taste  is  to  be  formed,  and  youthful  genius 
fostered  and  directed,  so  long  will  it  be  necessary  that 
the  master-pieces  of  ancient  poetry  and  eloquence 
should  be  the  subjects  of  study.     So  long  as  models  of 


ON    THE    MORAL    SENTIMENTS.  291 

historical  composition  are  to  be  sought  and  read  in  our 
own  language,  so  long  will  it  be  needful  that  Hume 
and  Gibbon  should  have  students — and  we  may  add, 
under  proper  restrictions,  cordial  admirers.  And  so 
long  as  unaffected  simplicity,  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  windings  of  the  human  heart,  and  almost  unlimited 
power  over  the  human  passions,  are  valued,  so  long  will 
Richardson,  faulty  though  in  some  respects  he  be,  find 
and  merit  readers.  But  if  these  works  tend,  while 
conferring  intellectual  benefits,  to  injure  the  moral 
sentiments,  then  let  this  danger  be  indicated,  and  let 
the  young  and  inexperienced  guard  themselves  against 
it.  Let  the  works  of  licentious  novelists  be  excluded 
from  the  family  and  the  public  library.  Let  honour  be 
given  to  whom  honour  is  due.  Let  the  Edgeworths, 
the  Mores,  the  Bruntons,  the  Scotts,  hold  the  place 
which  has  too  often  been  usurped  by  Fielding  and 
Sterne.  Let  Milton  and  Shakspeare,  Goldsmith  and 
Cowper,  be  restored  to  their  rightful  supremacy  over 
the  public  mind ; — and  let  the  ribaldry  of  Don  Juan, 
the  cheerless  though  sublime  misanthropy  of  Childe 
Harold,  be  consigned  to  that  oblivion  which  will  be 
sure  to  overtake,  at  last,  all  works  not  consecrated  by 
high  and  generous  sentiments  of  virtue. 

Union  College,  Schenectady,  (N.  Y.) 


292 


REMINISCENCES. 


BY  MRS.  ANNE  GRANT. 


To  the  Editor  of  the  Christian  Keepsake  : 

My  dear  Sir — Agreeably  to  your  request,  I  have 
written  to  the  excellent  and  venerable  Mrs.  Grant, 
(of  Laggan,)  and  have  obtained  from  h-er  the  following 
interesting  contribution  for  your  forthcoming  Annual. 
Her  "  Letters  from  the  Mountains,"  and  her  "  Memoirs 
of  an  American  Lady,"  (the  latter  of  which  Southey 
told  me  he  considered  one  of  the  finest  things  of  the 
kind  in  the  language,)  have  made  her  so  extensively, 
I  may  almost  say  universally,  known  in  this  country, 
that  it  can  bo  hardly  necessary  to  say  any  thing  even 
in  explanation  of  the  article  which  follows.  Perhaps, 
however,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  state,  that  she  came  to 
this  country  with  her  parents,  (her  father  being  an  offi- 
cer in  the  army,)  at  the  age  of  about  three  years,  and 
continued  here  till  she  was  about  fourteen,  during  a 
considerable  part  of  which  time  she  resided  in  this  city 
and  its  vicinity.  When  I  requested  of  her  the  favour 
that  she  would  write  for  the  Annual,  I  took  the  liberty 
to  suggest  that  nothing  probably  would  be  more  inter- 
esting to  American  readers,  than  some  reminiscences 
of  her  sojourn  in  this  country  previous  to  the  Revolu- 
tion; and  you  perceive  that,  in  complying  with  my 
request  to  write,  she  has  kindly  fallen  in  with  my  sug- 
gestion. When  it  is  remembered  that  she  is  now 
eighty-five  years  old,  and  that  this  article  was  written 


REMINISCENCES.  293 

during"  a  season  of  severe  domestic  affliction,  I  think 
every  one  must  be  struck  with  the  fact  that  it  indicates 
a  mind  of  commanding  powers,  and  a  heart  of  generous 
and  exquisite  sensibilities.  As  an  apology  for  any  want 
of  connexion  that  may  appear  in  it,  it  is  proper  to  state 
that  she  requested  me  to  "seZec^"  from  the  manuscript 
she  sent  me;  and,  in  compliance  with  her  request,  I 
have  selected  such  parts  as  I  thought  would  be  most 
interesting. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  add,  that  the  interviews  with 
which  Mrs.  Grant  indulged  me  during  my  visit  in 
Edinburgh  the  last  year,  were  to  me  exceedingly  gra- 
tifying. She  has  a  fine,  noble  person,  is  uncommonly 
dignified  in  her  manners  without  any  thing'  that  ap- 
proaches to  affectation,  and  in  her  conversation  she 
scarcely  betrayed  any  other  evidence  of  age  than  an 
occasional  lapse  of  memory  in  respect  to  recent  occur- 
rences ;  for  her  recollection  of  the  events  of  the  greater 
part  of  her  life  seemed  wonderfully  distinct  and  accu- 
rate. Her  bodily  infirmities  prevent  her  from  mingling 
in  society,  except  in  the  way  of  receiving  calls  from  her 
friends ;  but  she,  is  of  course  an  object  of  great  interest 
and  attraction,  and  is  evidently  passing  a  most  serene 
and  delightful  old  age,  in  the  confident  hope  of  that 
"  rest  which  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God." 
I  am,  my  dear  sir,  very  sincerely  yours, 

W.  B.  Sprague. 

Albany,  June  6th,  1837. 


In  this  advanced  period  of  life,  and  labouring  as  I  am 
under  bodily  infirmity,  I  feel  myself  quite  inadequate 
to  the  task  I  am  undertaking ;  and  yet,  in  one  respect, 
I  may  perhaps  claim  to  be  qualified  for  it.    I  refer  to  the 


294  REMINISCENCES. 

fact  that  the  character  of  my  mind  has  been  chiefly 
distinguished  by  the  faculty  of  accurate  observation  of 
character,  and  my  circumstances  in  life  have  been 
favourable  to  its  exercise,  as  I  have  been  brought  in 
contact  with  a  greater  variety  of  character  than  most 
persons  have  an  opportunity  to  witness.  My  intel- 
lectual powers  were,  like  your  own  country,  called 
into  a  kind  of  premature  existence ;  and  my  life,  pro- 
tracted far  beyond  that  of  most  of  my  fellow  creatures, 
has  been  a  scene  of  almost  constant  vicissitude,  and  has 
brought  me  in  contact  with  human  nature  in  almost 
every  form  and  every  condition. 

I  have  always  observed,  that  in  every  little  commu- 
nity and  even  large  family,  there  is  in  general  some 
mind  more  powerful  and  awakened  than  the  rest,  that 
sees,  and  thinks,  and  even  feels  to  some  extent  for  those 
with  whom  it  is  associated.  The  subjects  of  this  do- 
minion, in  the  place  I  am  about  to  describe,  yielded 
habitually  to  its  power,  because  they  found  Mutje  w^as 
always  right ;  though  of  all  the  human  beings  whom  I 
have  seen  in  both  hemispheres,  I  have  scarcely  ever 
beheld  so  repulsive  a  countenance  or  so  mean  a  figure 
as  hers.  Faya,  (I  speak  of  them  as  I  did  then,  by  the 
appellations  used  in  the  Dutch  language,  which  was  the 
language  of  the  family,)  Faya,  on  the  contrary,  was  a 
model  of  dignified  old  age ;  tall,  venerable,  with  a  fair 
and  open  forehead,  and  flowing  locks  that  w^  ere  gradu- 
ally assuming  a  silvery  hue.  The  whole  fine  and  be- 
nevolent countenance  was  afterwards  (for  I  saw  him  in 
successive  years)  so  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
patriarchal  figure  of  Abraham,  which  my  imagination 
had  pictured,  that  I  really  never  could  separate  them. 
Blessed,  however,  be  the  memory  of  Mutje,  who  first 


REMINISCENCES.  295 

called  into  exercise  a  mind  which  was  destined,  like 
herself,  to  a  long  course  of  subsequent  activity !  Of  her 
anecdotes  and  stories — chiejfly  relative  to  the  instincts 
of  animals  and  birds  ;  to  the  first  settlers  of  the  country, 
and  especially  to  the  Indians,  with  whom  her  family 
had  always  lived  on  amicable  terms — there  was  no  end. 
She  spoke,  I  remember,  with  much  indignation,  of  the 
original  sins  of  the  settlers,  who  carried  on  a  system  of 
fraud  and  deception  against  those  who  never  deceived 
any  one.  I  should  have  premised,  that  these  venerated 
patriarchs  were  the  ancestors  of  the  whole  family. 

Faya  and  several  of  his  children  found  their  occupa- 
tion and  their  pleasure  in  the  fields.  My  father,  who 
was  then  absent,  owed  his  great  popularity  to  his  strict 
personal  morality,  to  his  rigid  discipline  over  his  cour- 
teous Highlanders,  but  above  all  to  a  little  Dutch  that 
he  had  learned  when  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Hol- 
land, and  forced  to  winter  there.  The  love  I  felt  for 
the  children,  and  my  earnest  desire  to  associate  with 
them,  carried  me  forward  with  so  much  rapidity  in  the 
pursuit  of  their  language,  that  in  an  almost  incredibly 
short  space  I  had  attained  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  it. 
I  recollect  one  day,  when  I  was  less  than  five  years 
old,  after  listening  long  and  often  to  the  indefatigable 
Mutje,  I  exclaimed  in  her  own  language,  "  Mutje  must 
have  been  in  heaven,  for  she  knows  every  thing." 
This  was  thought  quite  a  remarkable  saying,  consider- 
ing my  age ;  and  I  believe  it  excited  expectations 
which  were  never  realized,  for  I  have  never  known 
that  it  has  had  any  successor.  The  knowledge  of  people 
who  think  much  and  powerfully,  without  owing  any 
thing  to  the  alphabet,  has  often  astonished  me.  They 
who  find    "  sermons  in  trees,  books  in   the  running 


296  REMINISCENCES. 

brooks,"  &c.,  spread  out  tlieir  self-acquired  stock  with 
a  raciness  and  originality  that  is  quite  extinguished  by 
the  high  pressure  of  much  learning.  One  of  Mutje's 
stories,  which  I  heard  at  a  later  period,  is  worth  re- 
cording, as  strongly  marking  national  habits.  It  was 
of  a  Dutch  family  who  had  a  child  carried  off  by  the 
Indians,  after  a  predatory  excursion,  to  which  most 
likely  the  parents  fell  victims.  The  young  captive 
grew  up  a  cherished  adoption  of  the  tribe ;  manly  and 
hardy,  excelling  in  all  Indian  accomplishments,  and 
strongly  attached  not  only  to  the  Indians  themselves, 
but  to  their  habits  and  customs.  He  had  near  relatives 
living,  who,  being  employed  at  some  distanee,  did  not 
share  the  fate  of  the  parents.  They  discovered  where 
their  kinsman  was,  and  earnestly  urged  him  to  return, 
but  their  entreaties  were  to  no  purpose.  He  persisted 
in  refusing  till  he  was  far  advanced  in  life.  When  he 
was  actually  persuaded  to  return,  (I  do  not  remember 
by  what  means,)  he  found  two  invincible  objections  to 
the  new  mode  of  life — one  of  a  physical,  the  other  of  a 
moral  nature.  In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  endure 
the  taste  of  salt,  for  the  Indians  had  always  preserved 
their  meat  by  drying ;  and  then  falsehood,  in  all  dis- 
guises and  modifications,  he  utterly  abhorred,  as  indi- 
cating a  mean  and  cowardly  spirit.  When  they  en- 
deavoured to  direct  his  attention  to  religion,  he  only 
answered  by  caustic  reproaches,  and  declared  his  dis- 
belief that  the  Great  Spirit  protected  a  nation  of  cow- 
ards and  liars. 

But  I  must  not  be  seduced  by  the  grateful  recollec- 
tions of  childhood,  and  of  tlie  dawning  love  of  knowledge 
and  truth,  to  linger  in  this  delightful  field.  I  have 
premised  all  this  to  show  how  my  infant  mind  received 


REMINISCENCES.  297 

its  first  direction ;  how  the  outline  of  my  character  was 
shadowed  forth,  which  was  afterwards  to  be  filled  up 
by  other  instrumentalities.  It  is  due  to  the  venerated 
memory  of  my  truly  worthy  parents  to  say,  that  while 
they  gave  me  the  fairest  example  of  truth  and  rectitude, 
they  instructed  me  faithfully,  at  a  very  early  age,  in 
the  lessons  of  piety,  and  endeavoured  to  direct  my  feet 
in  the  paths  of  wisdom. 

In  "The  American  Lady"  I  have  told  how  many 
aggravating  circumstances  attended  my  removal  from 
the  Eden  of  my  imagination  on  the  banks  of  the  excel- 
ling Hudson.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  them  at  present. 
I  remember  with  great  interest  the  sober  and  consist- 
ent piety  of  my  Dutch  friends,  which  never  rose  to 
fever  heat  on  the  one  hand,  and  never  sunk  to  apathy 
on  the  other;  and  my  recollections  are  particularly 
distinct  of  the  excellent  Dr.  Westerlo,  (the  Domine  as 
he  was  called,)  who  was  the  only  clergyman  I  knew  at 
the  time,  who  lived  a  secluded  and  studious,  yet  holy 
life.  But  the  time  at  length  came  when  I  was  parted 
from  all  these  friends  of  my  childhood,  and  the  scenes 
which  had  become  consecrated  to  my  affections,  and  set 
out  to  return  to  my  native  land ;  and,  after  a  stormy 
and  dangerous  voyage,  we  were  once  more  safely 
landed  in  Scotland.  My  father,  whose  early  habits  and 
imperfect  health  did  not  incline  him  to  take  cheerful 
views  of  religion,  and  who  considered  himself  impover- 
ished for  high  principle  and  loyalty,  w^as  much  de- 
pressed ;  while  my  cheerful  spirits  and  unextinguished 
hopes  kept  me  up  wonderfully. 

I  was  invited  to  visit  in  a  family  of  Seceders,  the 
father  of  whom  was  an  elder  in  the  church.    My  fancy 

p  p 


298  REMINISCENCES. 

clothed  this  good  man  with  solemn  gravity  and  super- 
human piety.  I  imagined  myself  in  the  Grass  Market, 
witnessing  the  triumphant  exit  of  the  honoured  martyr 
Renwick,  to  whose  hallowed  memory  even  David  Hume 
pays  a  reluctant  tribute ;  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  not- 
withstanding his  strong  Episcopalian  bias,  has  planted 
an  amaranth  upon  his  tomb.  Well,  I  required  all  my 
cheerful  spirits  to  support  the  monotonous  life  I  led ; 
situated  as  I  was  in  a  small,  gloomy  house,  where  a 
walk  was  a  rare  indulgence.  After  paying  our  passage 
and  furnishing  our  house,  our  funds  were  nearly  ex- 
hausted. Our  agent,  (Mr.  Monro,)  since  an  influential 
person  in  Upper  Canada,  would  in  due  time  raise 
money  on  our  valuable  property  we  had  left  behind ; 
but  meanwhile,  straitened  as  we  were,  my  earnings 
(amounting  at  that  time  to  a  sum  that  would  now  appear 
incredible)  were  all  applied  to  the  support  of  the  family. 
My  mother,  whose  taste  in  respect  to  dress  was  much 
more  gaudy  than  mine,  had  purchased  for  me  many  fine 
clothes  while  I  was  in  New  York ;  and  she  thought  it 
quite  unnecessary  that  I  should  exchange  them  for 
others  on  my  coming  to  this  country ;  so  that  the  avails 
of  my  industry  could  very  well  be  directed  to  sustain 
the  family  expenses.  Dear  and  venerated  mother,  ex- 
ample of  humble  excellence,  to  whom  I  owed  the 
invaluable  privilege  of  reading  the  scripture  so  early, 
she  being  my  only  teacher  and  that  my  only  book — no 
mental  eminence,  no  cultivated  powers  were  hers ;  but 
whatever  deficiency  there  was  in  knowledge,  was  amply 
made  up  in  warm  and  unwearied  benevolence. 

"  Her  duties  walked  tlieir  constant  round, 

Nor  made  a  pause  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 

The  single  talent  well  employed." 
Edinburgh. 


299 


ON  CONSISTENCY  OF  RELIGIOUS  CHARACTER. 


BV  REV.  ENOCH  POND. 


Were  an  inhabitant  of  some  other  planet,  who  was 
well  acquainted  with  our  Bible  and  our  relig-ion,  to 
travel  through  this  country,  and  take  a  minute  survey 
of  the  manners,  customs,  characters  and  conduct  of  the 
citizens,  it  might  be  difficult  for  him  to  determine,  at 
the  end  of  his  tour,  whether  the  religion  of  the  Bible 
was  professed  here,  or  not.  He  would  see  some  things 
which  might  lead  him  to  suppose  that  it  was  professed. 
As  he  travelled  from  place  to  place,  he  would  observe 
Bibles  lying  on  the  shelves,  and  would  occasionally 
lodge  with  a  family  in  which  was  offered  the  morning 
and  evening  sacrifice  of  prayer.  He  would  perceive 
that  one  day  in  seven  was  not  spent,  any  where,  just 
like  the  rest ;  and  that,  in  some  places,  it  was  observed 
with  a  tolerable  degree  of  conformity  to  the  law  of  the 
Sabbath.  He  would  find  a  goodly  number  of  houses 
for  public  worship,  and  a  class  of  men  denominated 
preachers  of  the  gospel.  He  would,  sometimes,  wit- 
ness rites  resembling  the  ordinances  of  the  gospel,  and 
might  occasionally  meet  with  a  fellow-traveller  who 
was  disposed  to  confer  with  him  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
gion. These  things,  and  perhaps  others,  he  would  note 
as  indications  that  we  were  a  Christian  people ;  that 
we  did  profess  to  receive  the  Bible  as  true,  and  to 
conform  our  characters  to  its  precepts. 


300  CONSISTENCY    OF 

But  then  this  evidence,  far  from  conclusive  in  itself, 
would  be  greatly  vi^eakened,  if  not  destroyed,  by  much 
that  was  of  an  opposite  kind:  for,  though  our  supposed 
visitant  would  observe  Bibles  in  our  houses,  he  would 
be  satisfied  that,  in  many  instances,  they  were  kept 
more  for  ornament  than  use,  as  they  had  the  appear- 
ance of  being  but  little  read.  And  though  one  day  in 
seven  was  not  spent  in  the  same  manner  as  the  other 
days,  yet,  in  most  places,  he  would  see  it  spent  so  dif- 
ferently from  the  design  of  the  Sabbath,  that  he  would 
be  in  doubt  whether  it  was  intended  as  a  holy  day,  or 
a  holiday ;  a  season  of  sacred  rest,  or  a  season  of  amuse- 
ment. And,  though  he  would  hear  something  which 
was  called  a  preached  gospel,  he  would  find  it,  not  un- 
frequently,  so  unlike  the  gospel  of  Christ,  that  he 
would  conclude  it  must  have  been  learned  from 
some  other  source  besides  the  New  Testament.  And 
though  he  would  see  rites  administered,  resembling 
the  ordinances  instituted  by  Christ,  he  would  find  the 
subjects  of  these  rites  living  so  much  as  others  lived, 
that  he  could  hardly  determine  whether  any  thing  was 
intended  by  them  or  not. 

Nor  would  this  be  all  the  evidence  presented  to  him, 
that  the  Bible  was  little,  if  at  all,  regarded  among  us. 
He  would  see  many  things  allowed  and  practised, 
which  the  word  of  God  forbids ;  and  many  others  ne- 
glected, which  this  holy  book  enjoins.  He  would  know 
the  deeply  interesting  nature  and  paramount  import- 
ance of  the  religion  of  the  Bible ;  and  yet  he  would 
find  this  religion,  in  most  cases,  exciting  but  little  at- 
tention, taking  no  deep  hold  of  the  affections,  and  ex- 
erting a  scarcely  perceptible  influence  on  the  life.  In- 
stead of  every  thing  being  made  subservient  to  it,  as 


RELIGIOUS    CHARACTER.  301 

he  might  reasonably  expect,  on  supposition  it  was  cor- 
dially received,  he  would  find  it  cast  into  the  back 
ground,  and  almost  every  thing*  attended  to  sooner  and 
more  than  this. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  concluded,  that  such  a  visitant 
would  hardly  know  what  to  think  of  us.  He  would  not 
find  us  just  what  he  might  expect,  on  supposition  we 
received  the  Bible ;  nor  just  what  he  might  expect,  on 
supposition  we  rejected  it.  He  would  have  much  oc- 
casion to  reproach  us  with  inconsistency ;  and  were 
he,  on  departing,  to  give  us  any  advice,  it  might  be 
precisely  that  of  Elijah  to  the  children  of  Israel — "  If 
the  Lord  be  God,  follow  him ;  but  if  Baal,  then  follow 
him."  If  the  Bible  be  true,  receive  it,  and  be  consist- 
ent; or,  if  it  be  false,  reject  it,  and  be  consistent.  At 
least,  be  consistent  somewhere.  Come  to  some  settled 
conclusion  in  regard  to  this  momentous  subject,  and  act 
accordingly. 

And  this  certainly  would  be  good  advice.  It  would 
be  such  as  it  well  became  one  rational  being  to  give  to 
another.  Only  two  conclusions  can  be  adopted  in  re- 
gard to  the  Bible.  It  is  either  true  or  false.  It  is  to 
be  either  received  or  rejected.  And  whichever  of  these 
conclusions  we  adopt,  we  should  endeavour  to  be  con- 
sistent, and  to  act  up  to  it.  Let  it  be  considered  then, 
in  the  following  discussion,  what  would  be  consistent 
with  a  determination  on  either  side  of  this  great  ques- 
tion. 

In  the  first  place,  what  does  consistency  require  of 
us,  on  supposition  we  reject  the  Bible  as  false  ? 

In  this  case,  obviously,  we  ought  to  destroy  all  our 
Bibles.  If  there  is  no  truth  in  them,  why  retain  them? 
If  they  are  an  imposition,  surely  we  have  suffered  im- 


302  CONSISTENCY    OF 

position  from  them  long  enough.  If  we  will  not  re- 
ceive them  as  the  truth  of  God,  we  owe  it  to  ourselves, 
and  to  after  generations,  to  blot  out  the  name  of  Bible 
from  under  heaven. 

On  the  supposition  now  before  us,  we  ought  also  to 
abolish  the  Sabbath.  The  Sabbath  is  founded  on  the 
Bible.  Its  divine  authority  rests  entirely  on  the  Bible. 
If,  therefore,  the  Bible  be  rejected,  the  Sabbath  must 
be  rejected  with  it.  Some  of  us,  to  be  sure,  have  been 
accustomed  to  set  a  high  value  upon  our  Sabbaths,  and 
to  feel  as  though  we  could  not  part  with  them ;  but  if 
the  institution  is  really  without  foundation,  then  let  us 
not  be  fettered  and  restrained  by  it  more. 

And  if  the  Bible  and  the  Sabbath  are  an  imposition, 
then  let  us  proceed  to  demolish  our  houses  of  worship ; 
or,  at  least,  let  them  be  devoted  to  other  purposes. 
Why  should  temples  be  erected ;  and  why  should  those 
be  permitted  to  stand  that  are  erected,  for  the  inculca- 
tion of  falsehood  and  imposture  ]  These  stately  monu- 
ments of  our  own  and  our  fathers'  folly  should  not  be 
permitted  to  descend  to  other  generations. 

And  not  only  so,  on  the  supposition  under  considera- 
tion, the  ministers  of  the  gospel  ought  all  of  them  to 
be  silenced,  if  not  punished.  They  should  be  suffered 
to  say  no  more  in  support  of  their  idle,  unfounded  su- 
perstition— should  be  suffered  to  do  no  more  mischief, 
if,  indeed,  they  escape  condign  punishment  for  what 
they  have  already  done. 

Nor  is  this  all.  If  the  gospel  has  no  foundation  in 
truth,  then  let  the  ordinances  of  the  gospel  be  at  once 
swept  away.  Let  there  be  no  more  churches,  or  pas- 
tors, or  sacraments,  or  religious  means.  Let  the  voice 
of  prayer  be  for  ever  hushed.     Let  it  be  a  crime,  so 


RELIGIOUS    CHARACTER.  303 

much  as  to  mention  the  name  of  Jesus.  Let  every 
thing"  possible  be  done  to  wipe  away  all  trace  and  ves- 
tige, and  blot  out  all  remembrance  of  the  religion  of 
the  gospel. 

Such,  reader,  are  some  of  the  consequences  of  re- 
jecting the  religion  of  the  Bible :  some  of  the  things 
which,  to  the  full  extent  of  our  power,  we  must  do,  if 
we  will  reject  it,  and  be  consistent.  Other  things, 
equally  dreadful,  and  perhaps  more  so,  might  be  stated ; 
but  neither  my  own  feelings,  nor  a  proper  respect  for 
yours,  will  suffer  me  to  proceed.  Has  not  enough  been 
said,  already,  to  make  us  tremble — enough  to  impress 
on  us,  more  deeply  than  any  abstract  reasoning  could 
do,  that  this  side  of  the  question  cannot  be  maintain- 
ed :  that  it  will  not  do  for  us- — that  we  must  not,  dare 
not,  disbelieve  and  reject  the  religion  of  the  gospel "? 

But  if  we  dare  not  reject  this  religion,  and  be  con- 
sistent, then  let  us  embrace  it,  and  be  consistent.  Let 
us,  at  least,  be  consistent  somewhere.  And  that  we 
may  act  understandingly  in  so  great  a  matter,  let  it  be 
considered,  in  the  second  place,  what  consistency  re- 
quires of  us,  on  supposition  we  receive  the  Bible  as 
truth. 

If  the  religion  inculcated  in  the  Bible  is  true,  then 
we  ought  to  attend  to  it  immediately.  If  this  religion 
is  a  reality,  it  is  a  stupendous  reality.  If  its  doctrines 
are  true,  they  are  truths  awfully  and  immediately  in- 
teresting to  mortals.  Here  we  are  represented  as  in 
the  constant  presence,  and  under  the  eye,  and  in  the 
hands  of  a  sovereign  God,  against  whom  we  have  all 
offended,  and  to  whose  wrath  we  stand  exposed.  He 
may  cut  us  off  at  any  time,  and  cast  us  off  as  he  did 
the  rebel  angels,  and  his  throne  would  be  guiltless. 


304  CONSISTENCY    OF 

But  in  these  circumstances  of  fearful,  dreadful  ex- 
posure, an  infinite  Saviour  has  consented  to  die  for  us. 
He  has  consented  to  throw  himself  between  us  and  the 
impending  vengeance,  and  to  receive  the  stroke  upon 
his  own  head.  And  now,  easy  offers  of  mercy  are 
made  us  in  his  name.  If  we  will  only  repent,  we  may 
be  forgiven.  If  we  will  believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  we  shall  be  saved.  But  these  ofiors  must  be 
accepted  immediately,  or  we  have  no  promise.  We 
may  avail  ourselves  of  them  to-day,  but  have  no  as- 
surance that  we  may  do  it  to-morrow.  And  if  we  do 
not  embrace  them  before  they  are  withdrawn,  then  we 
must  sink  down  for  ever,  under  the  penalty,  not  only 
of  a  broken  law,  but  of  a  rejected  gospel — under  a 
justly  and  fearfully  aggravated  condemnation.  Such 
is,  in  brief,  the  representation  of  the  Bible  respecting 
us ;  and  now,  if  this  is  a  true  representation — if  our 
case  is  really  as  is  here  described;  why,  surely,  it 
is  madness  to  neglect  religion,  and  slight  the  oftered 
mercy,  for  a  single  hour.  "  What  shall  it  profit  a  man, 
if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own 
soul  ]"  And  yet  he  is  in  imminent  danger  of  losing 
his  soul,  every  hour  that  he  neglects  the  religion  of  the 
gospel.  I  repeat,  if  our  case  is,  as  it  is  represented  in 
the  Bible — if  the  account  there  given  respecting  us  is 
true ;  we  ought  not  to  suffer  any  thing  to  intervene ; 
we  must  not  allow  any  thouglit,  or  business,  or  care,  or 
labour,  to  come  between  the  present  moment  and  our 
fixed  and  earnest  attention  to  the  concerns  of  our  souls. 
And  if  we  do  suffer  any  thing  to  intervene ;  if  we  do 
attend  to  any  thing  sooner  and  more  than  to  this  great 
subject,  we  do  it  in  lace  of  all  consistency,  and  at  the 
hazard  of  our  eternal  well  beino-. 


RELIGIOUS    CHARACTER.  305 

If  we  would  be  consistent  in  receiving  the  Bible  as 
true,  then  its  truths  must  sink  down  into  our  hearts^ 
and  deeply  interest  our  feelings.  These  truths  are 
not  mere  speculative  notions.  They  are  not  ideas  which 
may  be  admitted  to  float  about  in  the  head,  while  they 
exert  no  deeper  influence.  They  are  solemnly  mterest- 
ing  truths,  and  where  they  are  really  and  consistently 
received,  must  take  hold  of  and  try  the  feelings  of  men. 
How  is  it  possible  for  a  person  to  believe  in  the  exist- 
ence and  immediate  presence  of  a  holy  God,  his  sove- 
reign and  his  final  Judge,  and  not  feel  awed  in  the 
presence  of  this  mighty  God — and  not  adore  and  fear 
before  his  Creator  \  How  is  it  possible  for  any  one  to 
believe  the  representations  of  the  Bible  respecting  his 
own  sin,  and  guilt,  and  ruin,  and  not  feel  pained,  alarm- 
ed, and  humbled  in  view  of  his  situation  3  How  is  it 
possible  for  a  person  to  believe  what  the  Scriptures  re- 
late, respecting  the  dying  love  and  sorrows  of  Jesus, 
and  the  kind  offers  of  mercy  which  are  made  in  his 
name,  and  not  feel  his  heart  melted  in  view  of  this 
dying  love,  and  not  feel  himself  drawn,  constrained,  to 
accept  of  these  offers  without  delay  ?  How  can  we 
believe  what  the  Bible  brings  before  us  respecting  a 
coming  judgment,  a  heaven,  and  a  hell,  and  not  feel  all 
our  powers  excited  to  flee  from  the  impending  wrath, 
and  lay  hold  on  eternal  life  ]  It  is  vain  for  persons  to 
think  of  receiving  truths,  such  as  these,  and  being 
consistent  in  it,  and  yet  their  feelings  remain  unin- 
terested.    Indeed,  the  thing  is  clearly  impossible. 

If  we  would  be  consistent  in  admitting  the  reality 
of  religion,  it  must  be  suffered  not  only  to  interest  our 
feelings,  but  to  regulate  our  daily  practice.  Our  holy 
Bible  contains  precepts,  as  well  as  doctrines.     It  is  a 


306  CONSISTENCY    OF 

book  to  be  practised  as  well  as  believed.  It  is  vain, 
therefore,  to  pretend  to  believe  it,  and  be  consistent, 
unless  we  are  willing  to  obey  it ;  to  pretend  to  admit 
it  as  a  system  of  truth,  while  we  do  not  practise  it  in 
our  lives.  And  we  are  bound  to  practise  it,  not  occa- 
sionally, but  constantly.  Whatever  we  do,  is  to  be  done 
religiously.  Wherever  we  are,  the  principles  of  the 
gospel  must  be  predominant  in  our  souls.  We  are  to 
"  live  no  longer  unto  ourselves,  but  to  him  who  died  for 
us  and  rose  again."  "  Whether  we  eat,  or  drink,  or 
whatever  we  do,  we  are  to  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God." 
If  we  would  be  consistent  in  admitting  tlie  reality  of 
religion,  then  we  must  enthrone  it  in  our  affections 
above  every  thing  else,  and  make  all  other  pursuits  and 
objects  subservient  to  this.  This  is  not  placing  the  re- 
ligion of  the  Bible  too  high.  It  is  not  attaching  to  it 
an  importance  to  which  it  is  not  justly  entitled ;  for 
this  religion  is  a  most  weighty  concern.  If  it  is  any 
thing,  it  is  every  thing.  If  its  doctrines  are  true,  and 
it  is  a  reality,  according  to  the  supposition  now  before 
us,  then  it  towers  far  above  every  other  subject — it  rises 
to  a  height,  and  swells  to  a  grandeur,  which  causes 
other  things  in  the  comparison  to  look  small  indeed. 
Other  concerns  must  be  attended  to,  but  this  must  uni- 
formly rise  above  them.  The  avocations  of  life  must 
not  be  neglected,  but  they  must  be  pursued  in  the  fear 
and  for  the  glory  of  God.  The  cares  of  the  body  nmst 
be  secondary  to  those  of  the  soul.  The  concerns  of 
time  and  the  world  must  be  made  subservient  to  those 
mightier  concerns  which  take  hold  on  eternity,  and  re- 
late to  our  future  and  everlasting  well  being. 

It  will  be  obvious  to  every  reader,  that  the  subject 
under  consideration  places  us  all  in  very  solemn  and 


RELIGIOUS    CHARACTER.  307 

critical  circumstances.  We  have  a  volume  in  our 
hands  purporting-  to  have  come  from  the  God  who  made 
us,  and  to  contain  his  words.  And  certainly  it  con- 
tains solemn  words — solemn  messages — whether  they 
are  true  or  not.  These  messages  we  must  either  re- 
ceive or  reject;  and  whichever  of  these  conclusions  w^e 
adopt,  our  conclusion  draws  after  it  the  most  import- 
ant consequences. 

If  we  will  reject  the  Bible  as  falsehood,  and  be  con- 
sistent, we  have  a  hard  and  dreadful  task  to  perform ; 
for,  in  coming-  to  this  conclusion,  we  must  go  not  only 
in  opposition  to  the  influence  of  education,  but  in  face 
of  the  clearest  evidence  and  light.  We  have  as  much 
reason  to  believe  the  facts  stated  in  the  Bible,  as  we 
have  to  believe  any  thing  on  the  evidence  of  testimony. 
I  never  saw  the  city  of  London,  still  I  do  not  doubt  that 
there  is  such  a  city.  But  the  evidence  for  the  truth  of 
the  Bible  is  the  same  in  kind,  and  scarcely  less  in  de- 
gree, than  that  on  which  I  believe  that  there  is,  beyond 
the  wide  Atlantic,  such  a  city  as  London.  Yet  all  this 
evidence  we  must  blot  out  of  sight,  and  reject  as  worth- 
less, if  we  would  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Bible 
is  not  true.  And  when  we  have  fought  our  way  thus 
far  against  light  and  evidence,  and  the  conclusion  to 
reject  religion  is  adopted,  our  difficulties  have  but  just 
begun.  Having  denied  the  truth  of  the  Bible,  and  cast 
off  its  authority,  we  must  go  on  with  the  denial,  and 
carry  it  through.  We  must  wage  everlasting  war  with 
the  Bible,  and  with  the  religion  it  inculcates.  We 
must  do  all  we  can,  that  every  Bible  on  earth  may  be 
destroyed,  and  the  Sabbath  abolished,  and  every  Chris- 
tian temple  thrown  down,  and  every  minister  silenced, 
and  every  church  dissolved.    We  must  exert  ourselves 


308  CONSISTENCY    OF 

to  the  utmost,  that  the  ordinances  of  the  gospel  may  be 
done  away — that  the  voice  of  prayer  may  be  hushed — 
and  that  no  trace  or  vestige  of  the  false  and  exploded 
religion  may  remain.  Now  this,  it  will  be  perceived, 
is  dreadful  work ;  and  the  miserable  creatures  who  will 
reject  religion,  and  be  consistent,  have  a  hard  and 
dreadful  task  to  perform. 

Suppose,  then,  we  shrink  from  this  conclusion,  and 
adopt  the  other.  Suppose  we  receive  the  Bible  as  true, 
and  the  religion  it  inculcates  as  a  reality.  But  to  do 
this,  be  it  remembered,  and  be  consistent,  is  no  trifling 
matter.  It  is  something  more  than  to  think  pretty  well 
of  the  Bible,  and  to  entertain  an  idea  of  attending  to  it 
occasionally,  and  at  some  future  day.  It  is  something 
more  than  a  general  opinion  of  its  correctness — an 
opinion  floating  about  in  the  head,  which  has  little  or 
no  influence  upon  the  heart  and  practice.  It  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  desire  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of 
religion,  and  to  have  about  as  much  of  it  as  will  con- 
duce to  one's  supposed  respectability  or  interest.  When 
we  have  settled  the  point,  that  the  religion  of  the  Bible 
is  a  reality,  if  we  will  act  with  any  face  of  consistency, 
we  must  give  it  our  immediate  and  undivided  attention. 
Truths  such  as  those  disclosed  in  the  Bible  (if  they  are 
truths)  must  not  be  put  oft'.  They  present  a  concern, 
to  every  mind  which  apprehends  them,  of  all  others  the 
greatest,  and  of  the  most  pressing  urgency.  These 
momentous  truths  must  be  permitted  to  sink  down  into 
the  heart,  and  take  a  deep  and  everlasting  hold  of  the 
affections.  And  not  only  so,  they  must  regulate  the 
whole  future  life.  We  must  set  our  religion  above 
every  thing  else,  and  regard  every  other  concern  of  life 
as  secondary  and  subservient  to  this.     If  we  admit  the 


RELIGIOUS    CHARACTER.  309 

Bible  to  be  a  reality,  I  see  not  how  we  can  stop  one 
inch  short  of  all  that  has  here  been  stated. 

I  know  that  many  do  pretend  to  admit  the  Bible,  and 
yet  stop  far  sliort  of  this.  Some  would  have  the  credit 
of  admitting-  it  in  the  gross,  while  they  reject  it  piece- 
meal. They  would  have  the  credit  of  admitting  it, 
while  they  are  bent  upon  explaining  its  solemn  truths 
away.  But  if  persons  do  not  like  the  truths  of  the 
Bible,  and  are  resolved  not  to  receive  them,  it  certainly 
would  be  more  consistent,  and  might  be  as  safe,  to  re- 
ject the  whole  openly.  For  what  good  can  the  mere 
covers  of  the  Bible  do  us,  when  its  contents  are  torn  out? 
What  good  can  the  words  and  letters  of  the  Bible  do 
us,  when  its  solemn  meaning  is  all  discarded  ] 

And  some  there  are  who  profess  to  receive  the  Bible 
as  true,  and  yet  live  just  as  though  it  was  not  true. 
They  profess  to  believe  that  there  is  a  God,  a  Saviour, 
a  day  of  judgment,  a  heaven  and  a  hell,  and  yet  live  as 
though  all  these  were  the  merest  fictions.  But  what 
gross  inconsistency,  what  moral  infatuation  is  this ! 
Surely,  if  the  Lord  be  God,  we  ought  to  follow  him. 
If  the  Bible  be  true,  and  its  solemn  annunciations  are 
to  be  depended  on  as  realities,  we  ought  to  give  to  them 
our  immediate  and  most  earnest  attention.  We  ought 
to  rouse  up  to  a  consideration  of  them  all  the  powers 
and  affections  of  our  souls.  We  admire  consistency  in 
every  thing  else ;  why  not  be  consistent  and  thorough 
in  our  religion  1 

Bangor,  (Me.) 


310 


LINES 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  ARRAYED  IN  A  BALL  DRESS. 
BY  REV.  M.  A.  d'w.  HOWE. 

Thou  tell'st  me,  gentle  maiden,  that  they  deck  thee 

for  the  dance, 
And  there  beams  a  gladness  in  thy  mien,  a  glory  in 

thy  glance ; 
Jewels  are  on  thy  marble  brow,  and  wreaths  are  in  thy 

hair, 
And  light  as  the  fall  of  the  virgin  snow  thy  whispering 

footsteps  are. 

Beauty  will  lead  the  mazy  dance,  and  music  charm  the 

ear. 
And  'mid  the  brilliant  throng,  perchance,  thou'lt  meet 

no  proud  compeer : 
But  what  is  beauty's  withering  crown  1  what  music's 

swelling  tone  ? 
One,  transient  as  the  thistle's  down ; — one,  echoes  and 

'tis  gone. 

Oh !  what  if  thou  should'st  sudden  hear  some  unseen 
spirit's  wing 

Flit  by  thee,  as  thou  standest  there,  within  that  glee- 
some  ring? 

And  what  if  tliou  should'st  know  the  sound  to  be  the 
rush  of  death, 

To  clasp  thy  maiden  zone  around,  and  drink  thy 
youthful  breath  1 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY.  3II 

Could'st  thou  triumphant  lift  thine  eye,  lay  down  thy 

mortal  coil, 
And  death  with  all  his  powers  defy,  thy  heavenly  hope 

to  foil] 
Then  go,  fair  one,  and  join  the  dance,  and  swell  th' 

exulting-  song-. 
And  when  the  feet  of  beauty  glance,  sweep  thou  in 

light  along  ! 

Oh  1    venture  not  to  spread  thy  wing  on  pleasure's 

flattering  stream, 
Though  Syrens  on  its  bosom  sing,  and  radiant  billows 

gleam ; 
It  flows  not  with  Siloa's  brook,  fast  by  the  ark  of  God, 
But  hurries  where  in  wrath  is  shook  th'  avenger's 

scourging  rod. 

Once, — rapt  in  high  imaginings,   in  faith's  uncurbed 

career. 
Upborne  as  on  an  angel's  wings,  I  trod  another  sphere : 
I  saw  a  vast   and   princely  hall,   most  wondrous   to 

behold. 
All  precious  stones  gleamed  from  its  walls,  enchased  in 

burnished  gold. 

Within — before  my  'raptured  eyes,  forms  most  divinely 

fair 
Flung  from  their  harps  soft  harmonies,  upon  the  vocal 

air; 
Joy  spoke  in  each  exulting  tone,  and  lit  each  radiant 

eye, 
No  strain  breathed  sorrow's  plaintive  moan,  nor  fear's 

expressive  sigh. 


312  TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

Clad,  every  one  in  robe  of  light,  pure  as  the  mountain 

snow ; 
Bestud  with  jewels  passing  bright,  crowns  glistened  on 

each  brow ; 
And  as  their  tuneful  measures  fell,  in  concert  sweetly 

bound 
To  grace  a  bridegroom's  festival,  harmonious  moved 

around. 

Amazement  every  sense  o'ercame, — speech  told  my 

glad  surprise ! 
All  vanished — like  a  taper's  flame,  and  o'er  me — bent 

the  skies ! 
But,  written  on  that  azure  brow,  in  stars  of  sparkling 

beam, 
There  shone — 'twas  mercy's  brighter  bow — "  Thy  vision 

was  no  dream !" 

Could  I  secure  one  chaplet  fair,  for  Christ's  espousals 

given, 
I'd  twine  it  in  thy  maiden  hair,  and  deck  thee  now  for 

heaven ! 
Alas !  my  inmost  soul  is  moved,  sighs  check  my  lab'ring 

breath, 
For  ah !  the  lovely  and  beloved,  hies  to  the  Dance  of 

Death ! 

Roxbury,  (Mass.) 


THE  END. 


.-. 


^^. 


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